Shallow Waters
by urbankazoos
Summary: It begins in New York with a blind date, a messenger bag, a pair of heels, and a lot of doubt...
1. Chapter 1

The lights shone down from every direction, and I blinked twice. The buildings loomed and I felt small in a way that simultaneously made me feel more alive than I could remember feeling since I had left and it didn't really make sense, I guess. Maybe.

I don't know.

The stage lights (they shone similarly) seemed so bright that I couldn't see my audience clearly. Simply heard them and their sighs and their hurried, animated conversations as they shuffled past me, arms brushing me enough to give intimacy to an accident. And I liked it, pushed back a little bit sometimes when they'd brush past, just to make more of an impact. I was a fan in this city, drinking it all in and feeling its exciting heat low in my belly. Evidence of my appreciation.

I felt something else too. A vibration that had nothing to do with the pulse and buzz of the city.

"Hello," I said, stepping underneath an awning to take her call, fumbling with the clip of my messenger bag before recovering enough to ask again, "hey…hello?"

People looked at me as they continued to walk by, but they didn't stare. It was strange how different that could look.

_I see you, but I don't want to…_

"Spence? Hey, this you?"

"I hope so. It would be a little early in the game for my phone to get stolen."

"Smartass."

'Yeah, well…"

"Whatever, are you at the restaurant?"

I was probably a block or two away, but I was considering wandering into a store for awhile just so I wouldn't arrive first and have to be the one who gets to wait. That person never recovers the upperhand—that waiting one. It's this thing that happens silently. This, "I'll sit and wait for you again and again," that I despise.

"Not yet. No…I'm going to get lost."

"No! Why are you saying that?"

"I still get lost in L.A. and I've lived there for like, what? Seven years. Eight years? Something like that?"

I wave away a man who insists upon selling me a "gold" watch without much success. He smiles at me, pretends not to understand what it means.

_No_, I mouth at him, returning the smile.

_No_.

"But I gave you the easiest directions ever to follow," she whines, and I can literally picture the look she's wearing. Know exactly what kind of frown she's using from years of collegiate experience.

"I've never been good at following directions. We know this."

"Don't be late. She'll hate that."

If I had decided to keep a physical as opposed to a mental list of all the things she's said about this person that ended with, "…she'll hate that," I would have the proof necessary to validate my fear of this blind date. But instead I just had my head, and I never trusted that by itself.

"Did you ever think that maybe this conversation we're having right now isn't helping me to _not_ be late? Ever think about that, Kate?"

"Fine, but hurry."

She hangs up, and now I can speak, "I don't need a watch, see?" I say, holding up my arm, "I have one."

"You need another one."

I don't. I absolutely don't need another one.

"I just don't."

"Come on…come on…twenty. I'll take twenty for it. It's a good watch. Tells time real good."

"Isn't that what watches are supposed to do?"

He glances down the street, tired of me.

I buy it for ten bucks and the story to tell when I return to L.A. and walk the remaining two blocks more quickly that I had intended to. I guess with an extra watch, there really wasn't an excuse for being late.

* * *

I arrived first, of course. The hostess smiled at me for a second less than sincere and showed me to a table in a dark corner. Normally, I would have complained, but this way, I could hide. Maybe even see her first.

My phone buzzed again. Text message from Kate.

**Don't b weird. Be yrself.**

Synonymous.

The waiter—all black, tall, model out of work, more than likely—strode over, water pitcher and one menu in hand.

"I'm waiting for someone."

The universal symbol for, "I had to get out of my apartment. The one menu will suffice because I'm lying to you and no one else is coming—ever."

"Did you want to order something to drink…while you wait?"

"Light beer of your choice. I don't really care. And a water—with lemon if you have it. Do you have it?"

"We do. We can do that."

"And I'll have a mojito."

She came from behind me. Well, sort of. I turned around, my eyes landing on the necessary symbol to let me know we were seated conveniently near the women's restroom. A restroom I imagine she had just emerged from.

Fuck.

"Hey," I said, nervously.

I didn't know if I should stand or shake or hug or just smile or pull out a chair (What?! Since when, Spencer? Really?) or die on the spot because…wow.

She was beautiful. But not my type. I was more a fan of the spectacle-donning, paint-dotted jean, tortured artist variety. And she was apparently…not that.

"Hey, what's up?"

I'm not usually so…_presumptuous_. So insane. But I wanted that voice reading me passages from all of my favorite books in a bed in a time I'd yet to see. If she could read…

The waiter smiled , nodded, and walked away, leaving me alone to frown at her a bit.

"What?" she asked with a weird smile as she took out her cell phone.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Kate told me what you'd look like. Also," she says as she texts with light-speed moving fingers, "she told me about this messenger bag."

"Seriously?"

Kate hated my bag. She said it made me look like a disgruntled, male bike messenger from 1999.

Ashley nodded, "Yeah. I told her no way. We don't do bags like that in L.A. but look, here you are and here it is.

"Are you originally from L.A.?"

It was immaturely meant as a subtle dig, but then I remembered that I had lived there for so long that I was just as _L.A._ as she was. A different type. But still one of her tribe.

"Born and raised."

"What do you do? For work?"

"I was working for this fashion magazine but they totally…I don't know. Long story. Whatever."

"I like long stories."

I liked her voice.

"Okay, well the L.A. area didn't need another fashion magazine, I guess, because we only lasted for three years. I still do some stuff in fashion, but…"

"Like what?"

"What?"

"Like _what_? Writing, photography…what?"

"Oh, some stuff with like, going out and seeing what's hot."

"Like research?"

"Sort of. But I also plan parties—professionally."

"Wow."

"Yeah," she says, resuming her texting.

"People actually do jobs like that out there. Everywhere, I guess. That's insane. Sounds like a reality show or something."

"What do you do?"

"I'm in grad school. I'm a filmmaker."

"Awesome. What do you want to do? Television? Like, movies?"

"Documentaries. About the war, mostly. My brother's in the military."

She nodded, but her eyes were locked on her phone. It was distracting. And I wanted to see her eyes again.

"Hey…how long are you here for?"

"Another two days. I had a party that I did here and then I'm back in L.A. for another one."

"Do you not want to be here?"

"In New York?"

"Here. Here with me."

She finally met my eyes, and there was something there. Something that showed more depth than she had allowed me to see thus far.

"Why would you say that?"

"You won't look at me. You won't even stop texting. You seem bored. I don't know, you tell me."

"Sorry. I don't even notice anymore," she says, slipping her phone in her purse, "tell me about this filmmaking."

"It's just what I do."

"It makes you happy."

"It makes me who I am," I say, feeling a bit clever now the conversation was only between us.

"That's not the same thing, is it?"

"I guess not."

"I hope not."

"What do you do for fun?" she asks with a sigh and a smile. It rattles me a bit.

"I read a lot. I like to check out some art exhibits if I have the time. I drink a lot of coffee. I sound like some pseudo-intellectual steroetype. What do you do for fun?"

"I party a lot, obviously. Hang out on the beach. I like um…I like shopping. I guess I'm a stereotype too. I mean, I'd never be seen with you in L.A. if you brought that thing along," she says, pointing at my bag.

"Is it really that bad?"

"It's bright yellow."

"It was on sale."

"They owe you…how much did you pay for it?"

"Like, twenty bucks or something."

"Okay, so they owe you twenty bucks."

"Wow."

She's laughing now, "Just saying…"

"Well, I couldn't be seen at the art gallery with someone in fourteen-inch heels."

"Oh! Watch out. These are the most modest heels I own. When's the last time you've been out?"

"Ages ago. I don't really like going out."

"What was Kate thinking?" she says, shaking her head. I can't tell if she's serious or not.

Before I can ask, the waiter appears.

* * *

"So…"

"You have a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke."

"Whatever, that's fine. What now?"

Dinner had been tolerable, but strange. I couldn't even decide if I liked her or not. All I knew is that there was no way we'd ever see each other again.

"Split a cab?" I asked with a shrug.

"Let's walk."

"I'm too far away."

"No," she says, grabbing my hand, "let's go for a walk."

"I don't know…"

"You intellectuals are supposed to be into that kind of stuff, right? Come on. We'll do it your way."

I thought twice, looked at her as she got bathed every second in a different color light.

"Your heels…"

"I'm used to it. Come on."

And maybe because it was difficult to feel like time was being wasted on a night when I had double the time I ordinarily had, I allowed myself to be pulled down some street in Manhattan, careful not to stare.


	2. Chapter 2

"You like it, huh?" she asks with a knowing grin, seemingly proud to have figured something out about me without being told.

"I do. I really do."

Before this pause, we had been walking for almost forty minutes. I could feel her sway into me every other step until the rhythm of these small collisions felt comforting in its predictability. Hit and miss and hit and miss and hit and miss until I couldn't tell whether the "miss" was really a miss or if it had all reversed and now her "hits" were "misses" and vice versa. What I did know—or at least recognize from holiday mall shopping with my mother—was the faint smell of her Juicy perfume when her hits really counted.

"I like it too. I don't even know why. I like the colors, I guess. I don't know how to explain it to someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"Someone who knows art or whatever. I would probably feel stupid and you would go back and tell Kate, 'hey, thanks for setting me up with that stupid girl with the ridiculous shoes.'"

I laughed, a little surprised that she would attempt an impression of me so early, "I would never…"

"You so would. You just _so_ would. It's okay."

The mural covers the entire side of the building. And she's right, it's incredible. Probably took a lot of people a long time and it shows. It's the history of the city, depicted through a series of representative citizens, all looking out towards us with pride as they represent their part of the elaborate, bold story that's New York.

"Yeah…yeah, I like this a lot."

"Cool," she says, smiling again before shaking her head.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Ashley…what? Come on, tell me."

"When I was living here for those three months that I met Kate, I would come eat my lunch here like everyday. And this one time, this guy came and sat beside me and he looked at me for a really long time and finally I got…you know, _annoyed_ enough to be like, 'what's up? Why are you staring at me?'"

"Was he looking or was he staring?"

"Oh my God. I don't know. I mean, I _do_. I know what you're saying, but I don't remember anymore. It's been a long time."

"Oh, right. Because you're just so incredibly old."

"I'm wise, okay? Wise beyond my 26 years," she says with a grin, throwing her head back arrogantly.

"We'll see…"

"Anyway, so I ask him what the deal is and he just keeps staring. And like, now I'm getting uncomfortable or whatever because of course this dude is totally going to kill me and I guess steal my lunch and run away, right?"

Because I have to ask…because I love asking people the question, "What was it?"

"What was what?"

"What was your lunch? What were you eating?"

"This is a trick question, huh? You're totally about to judge me on what I had for lunch."

"I mean, probably. But you know, of course not…but yeah, definitely."

"One strawberry Pop Tart, a miniature bottle of wine, and a caesar salad."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No! Why would I be kidding?"

"First of all, I just saw you eat dinner and you barely touched anything so there's no way you were eating that much for lunch. Secondly, who the fuck drinks wine…wait, wait, wait. Wait a second. Who drinks wine and eats a Pop Tart in one sitting? Seriously. That alone is an art piece. Some sort of weird ironic symbol of the inability to leave infancy once you're an adult or something."

"Pop Tarts aren't for babies."

"I'm using 'infancy' as a term of art, here."

"Whatever. It's a good combination. I don't care what you have to say about it. And you're right. I wouldn't eat that much food now, but that's only because my metabolism is not what it used to be."

"Right, because you're old."

"Wise. There's a difference."

"What's the difference…to _you_ anyway?"

"Botox."

"Oh God."

"Anyway, let me finish my story."

"Oh, sorry."

"That's okay. So all of a sudden the guy reaches into his pocket and pulls out an engagement ring. Like, seriously. Like an actual engagement ring."

"What?"

"Yeah, and he gets on one knee right there on the street and proposes to me. Best lunch ever."

"And you said 'yes,' of course…"

"Obviously. So um…I have a husband. You know, just by the way."

"Uh-huh…"

"Thought you should know."

"It's a very romantic story."

She laughs, nods at me appreciatively, "It is. It totally is."

* * *

We walked for a long time. I trailed her sometimes just to see how she chose to move down the streets and for a few more shallow reasons, I suppose. She was almost unreasonably beautiful. Matching brown hair and eyes—eyes that flashed bright, eyes that moved carefully—with a prerequisite tan that I didn't mind so much on her. Wide grin. Perfect legs.

I would catch her eyes on me, as well. But I imagine it was to scrutinize (basic life-long insecurities.) I was in no way what she was used to. I didn't have to be told this, because I could tell. She looked at me like I was something brand new to her. Something she hadn't even thought of before. My kind didn't force ourselves into her world the way her kind forced themselves into mine. She was the female goal, and I was something else entirely.

"You're quiet back there."

"I know."

"Is it because you're checking out my ass?"

"No, your personality…from this angle."

She laughs, but keeps walking until we've reached a café.

"We have an hour. Come on," she says, pushing open the door.

I'm hit from every angle with the incomparable aroma of brewing coffee. There's a small crowd of men inside talking and laughing but they grow quiet when they see Ashley. I can't help it. I smile at how obvious they are, smile at the idea of a life spent silencing crowds with beauty alone.

"Espresso, yeah? You only do espresso, I bet."

She's close to me now, mouth mere inches from my ear and I feel her everywhere I can't see her. She's not acknowledging her audience at all. It's as if they don't even exist. As if we stepped into an empty café.

"Any coffee. I do every kind," I reply, leaning into her as well, "by the way, I think those gentlemen are smitten."

"Those guys?"

"You didn't notice?"

"Not anymore," she says with a shrug, and it doesn't even sound as arrogant as it probably should, "and besides, they're looking at you too."

I turn my head to find eyes meeting mine, followed by respectful nods. Their conversation is resumed as if we've never entered. They were used to this too. Staring, but never actually getting beyond it. Maybe not even wanting to.

"See? All you girls with your artsy glasses and your ponytails think you're immune to shit like that. It's not the case."

I order a cup of House and she settles on a latte, which she sips with her eyes closed. My coffee gets cold. Every time she closes them I have to watch, because when they open it's so jarringly crush-worthy that it requires all of my attention.

"What was your last girlfriend like?" I ask, suddenly. Surprising even myself.

"All you lesbians are the same, you know that? Ex-obsessed."

"What can I say? It tells you a lot about someone."

"Really?"

I nod. She sits her cup on the table, quiet for just a moment.

"Well, she was a singer. Closeted, crazy into drugs, crazy into everything, really…except for me. And I'm not saying drugs and partying and going with the flow is bad or whatever, because it's not. But like…it has to stop somewhere. And it didn't with her. That _was_ her life, not her escape from it, you know? So we split. She's dating some eighteen year-old actress now."

"Would I know her?"

"My ex or her girlfriend?"

"Either. Both."

"Probably. Though, I can't picture you owning a television or listening to club music."

"What gave that away?"

"The messenger bag. Which coincidentally should also be given away."

"Very clever," I say, finally taking a sip of my coffee.

"How long do you think it'll be before I'm bored of these jokes about the bag?"

"Kate manages to still find enjoyment in it, so who knows? Could take years."

"Years…" she says, shaking her head before returning to her latte.

"You never finished your story, you know?"

"Which?"

"About the proposal. You got to the part where you know, he's staring and then he proposes. You never said what happened after that."

"Well," she says, looking as though she might smile, "apparently, I have years…"


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much for the feedback, guys! Seriously. Keep it coming!

* * *

There were a few left behind dirty windows of late-night diners, claiming the fifth to last french fry was the last of the night before grabbing at the next and using the other charmingly greedy hand to reach for their old-school coffee mug. A man in front of a now gated shop singing broken hymns as the cheap wine swayed him back and forth like a once-steady tree in a once-still wind. A couple of owls sweeping strange leftover potions of beer nuts, the overspill of toasted shot glasses, and discarded business cards with phone numbers underlined in black or blue ink for emphasis. Calls that will never get made, toasts that won't be remembered in tomorrow's typical hangover remedies. A man whose buzz will abruptly fade and leave memories that aren't ready to be remembered.

But there we were, too. Still side-by-side and walking without purpose. I had tried to remember all night the last time I had walked without the fear of being late for something, or the worry of tripping over a cat on a midnight trek to the kitchen to wrangle up leftover Key Lime pie before letting my legs dangle as I crawl up on a bar stool and pretend to hear a non-existant someone calling me back to bed for the second time straight.

(_I'm coming._)

"It's late…_early_, I guess," I finally say, letting out a sigh I had been holding for the last block and a half. I didn't want her to think that I was tired of her or maybe tired in general. It scared me that something like this would have to end and that "other-worldliness" I felt would move into an even more delicate reality.

"Yeah…yeah, I guess it is. It's _late_. You know, if you're eighty years-old and a card-carrying member of The National Association of Bingo."

"I'm both of those things—_proudly_ both of those things, in fact. "

"I wouldn't be surprised, Spencer. You see, that's the thing. I wouldn't be surprised at all."

"Yes, well, I can't help it if I'm one of those unexciting people who thinks that 3:30 am is a bit late to be perusing the streets of New York…"

"City that never sleeps, though," she says, pointing at me with a winning grin, "city that never sleeps. What say you to that?"

"What the city chooses to do is her business, I've decided. We've agreed to disagree about a number of things, she and I."

"Oh yeah? Well…" she shrugs, losing her thought in one of the many moments I wish I could take with me to L.A.

Maybe in a snow globe, though thoughts and feelings and little uncontrollable spasms of "yes" may not translate well when shaken up.

"You're tired. You can lie about it, of course. But you're tired," I say, stopping next to a closed newspaper stand to track down my Chapstick.

"How do you know?"

"You're smiling a lot, you're losing your edge a little bit—promise that secret is safe with me—and for what it's worth, you look it."

"I look tired? That's nice, Spencer. You're a real charmer."

"I have a collection of instructional, motivational VHS tapes on the subject of 'charming women.' Obviously."

She shakes her head, smiling again, "Maybe I just happen to be smiling a lot or losing my edge or whatever because I'm happy I'm here with you. Did you ever think about that? Did VHS tape number eight prepare you for what happens after your target is fully charmed?"

"No."

"No?"

"So do you want to see me…when we're back in L.A.? I think I want to see you again."

"It'll be different there."

"Why?"

She shakes her head, smile suddenly gone and for the first time of the night, it's not teasing the corners of her perfect mouth waiting to reappear.

I miss it.

"No, seriously. Why will it be different?" I push, taking a step closer to her on the sidewalk.

"I'm not exactly sure, but I feel like maybe I'm a different person there, you know? At home. Like maybe this doesn't feel real or something."

"What's not real about this?"

"You don't just…oh, come on. Really? We're just these two people who would've never met in our real lives who just so happen to have this amazing chemistry. It's a really bad Meg Ryan movie come to life. Then we go back home and try to make it work but the truth is…the truth is, I'm a partier and a drinker and I like spending money and I have no idea what's #1 on the bestselling non-fiction list and I bet you do."

"I have no idea. I'm not really into non-fiction."

"I'm starting to pick up on that."

"Look, I guess how I can see that every date can't be this. I mean, eventually I'd have to go to class so I couldn't exactly walk around L.A. all night with you talking about whatever the fuck comes to my head. But I don't get how you would all of a sudden be this completely different person at home."

"It's just different there, ok? I don't know how else to explain it."

I had nothing to say to that, so I closed my mouth and waited to see if she'd decide what should happen next. Her eyes left mine and instead she looked on as our soloist collapsed on the ground, still singing though the words were lost on me.

I couldn't wait.

"All I know is that this can't be the last time I see you," I say, taking yet another step forward, "I can't really help it, Ashley, if my interest is piqued. What can I do?"

"We'll have another date once we're both back in L.A., alright? We'll see how it goes."

"Hey, I don't want to make you…"

"Don't be stupid. I want to."

Her face softens, and she nods affirmatively like she's trying to convince herself despite what she says.

"Good."

"Yeah, so…maybe we should split a cab, huh? Are you staying at Kate's?"

"I am."

"Ok, cool. So we'll just…"

"Ashley?"

"Yeah?"

I take the final step until it's just me and her and the faraway sounds of a dysfunctional street as I close my eyes, too nervous to see us this close in the reflection of hers. My hands move to rest at the base of her neck, revelling in how soft the skin is there and the tiny pinpricks of utter sensation as her hair brushes my fingers.

"I don't care if this isn't who you get to be all the time. I just like knowing that this part of you, however small, exists and that you shared it with me. That's all," I say, meaning it completely.

She leans forward, softly touching her lips to mine, "I'm not going to kiss you, Spencer."

"You're not?"

"No, because I don't want to ruin your opportunity to think about what it could be like on the plane…and while you're in your apartment waiting for me to call you and getting nervous that I won't…and during the first few hours of our second date…"

"Evil. You're evil."

"Maybe."

She pulls away and the smile is back where it belongs.

* * *

I thought about her from the second the cab dropped her off at her hotel, watching her through the glass as she turned around to wave before disappearing like a mirage in the desert of an insane night. It was if the night was some sort of self-acted screenplay. Too good and too fast. The dialogue moving too slow in some places and way too quickly in others. And like all of the screenplays I admired, it didn't even begin to make sense until the end.

I wanted to think of her. I wanted to remember. I wanted to focus on keeping her in my head, but it wasn't possible. She was right—non-fiction persevered. So as I trudged up the steps of Kate's building, I gave into the fact that I wouldn't remember her completely until I saw her again. I wouldn't fully remember what I needed to about her until she was standing in front of me and the need to remember made itself irrelevant in her presence.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me. Will you buzz me in?"

"You better be glad I make it a point to stay in and drink until the wee hours of the morning or else you'd be sleeping on the sidewalk tonight, Carlin."

"Your alcoholism and reclusive tendencies are both things I've always been thankful for, Kate."

The buzzer sounded, invasive and obnoxious, and I hurried through the heavy front entry and up the steps to her second-floor apartment where she stood waiting. She was leaning against the doorframe with a glass of wine in her hand and a knowing smirk plastered on her clearly plastered face.

"Shut up."

"You liked her. And that's weird because I totally thought that shit would fail. I'm not even going to lie."

"She's cool," I reply casually, sliding past her to enter the apartment. My legs were quickly rebelling against their overuse from a night spent walking and I needed to hit the couch as soon as possible.

"Of course she is. She's my friend. But she can be a bit…"

"Shallow?"

"Occasionally, yeah."

"I thought she was at first…and I don't know, maybe she is. But I feel like maybe she's just embarrassed about being smart or something. She's pretty thoughtful, actually. I mean, we talked all night."

"Yeah…wow," Kate says, plopping down next to me on the couch, "you just never know I guess."

"Why? What's she like with you?"

"Well, I mostly call her when I need advice about an outfit or something. Or like, if I want to know where the coolest place to go clubbing is."

"Interesting."

"Not really. Anyway, I'm going to bed. If you need anything…figure it out."

"You're the best hostess ever, Kate."

"You know it," she says, shuffling towards her bedroom and closing the door behind her.

And I should sleep too, but I can't. I'm still brimming with energy, still needing to defuse. When my phone vibrates to alert me of a text message, I nearly jump from excitement just that it gives me something to do with myself.

**Stop talkng to kate about me and go 2 sleep**

I can't even help it. I smile from ear to ear before hitting "reply."


	4. Chapter 4

There are plane rides. Too hot coffee on the front of my t-shirts. Sinkfuls of dirty dishes that go ignored. A train of marching ants lining the window and travelling across the hardwood floors of my studio apartment.

I sit bare-faced and anxious on the edge of my bed, staring out the window for no reason. Catch myself. Physically pull myself into the next waiting activity.

Shake my head at my reflection as I wipe my palm across the bathroom mirror after a scalding hot shower.

I wait for the call. Absolutely fight with myself not to care that it doesn't happen.

_It _doesn't.

_She_ just doesn't.

It makes me feel insane, almost. As if somehow I had imagined something that just wasn't. I had created a night in time that could be perceived in a way that was so opposite of what I saw/felt/was, that I would be sitting weeks later waiting for a call that I shouldn't even expect. Shouldn't even want. Shouldn't even miss.

Without much thought, I could easily slip myself back into that night and revel in it like it was some sort of boundless security blanket. I could picture her tipping her head back in a deep laugh. I could see the way her hands gripped the thin paper cup that held her latte and the indentions that she left were the only signs I had that she, too, was nervous. I could see almost everything, and know…_know_ that there wasn't enough evil in the world to allow it to be a one-sided memory. She had to know. It _had_ to have been actual, because if not I really was insane.

There was nothing I hated more than feeling an insanity like that. It made me feel unstable when I knew I wasn't. If nothing else, I had my stability. Prided myself on the consistency that was my life. I _did_ things. I didn't wait.

But there was nothing I could do, so I moved on. I buried myself in school work, typed notes angrily in class out of nothing but the anger I felt that I could feel betrayed by someone I had only known for a few hours—if at all. She had owed me nothing, so why resent her?

"What did that keyboard ever do to you?"

The voice caught me off guard and I almost fell out of my chair in the library trying to locate its source.

_Anna_.

"Hey, no. I don't know. Weird day," I reply, trying to calm my nerves as I shift back around in my chair.

She takes the seat next to me, smiling knowingly.

I want to use my hand to remove it from her face. She knows absolutely nothing about me.

"Your due date is coming up, right?"

"You make it sound like I'm having a baby or something, Anna."

"Feels like it sometimes, huh? But seriously, it's coming up?"

"Yeah, it is. But that's not…"

"It can be stressful, Spence. But just think, when it's over it's over."

When it's over, it's over? What a dumb thing to say to me.

"Right, I know. I just…I let myself get too caught up in all this shit and then it's hard to not let it take over my entire fucking life."

"Yeah, well…" she shrugs, and I hate that it makes me think of Ashley, "like I said, when it's over it's over."

"But until it's over, I feel like I need to be medicated and locked in a padded cell so I don't hurt myself and others."

She laughs, "You'll be fine. How was New York, by the way? You went there a couple weeks ago, didn't you?"

"I did, I did. Wow, has it been that long since I've seen you?" I ask, knowing the answer completely. Because of course it had been that long. I had _made_ it that long on purpose after out last encounter went shockingly awry.

She and I had spent the night going over our film projects at her apartment, until talk of technique and subject was nearly incomprehensible as the alcohol set in and lingered clearly in our jolted, sometimes meaningless—but always hilarious—sentences. And then, as I slammed my last shot down on her splintered coffee table, her mouth was suddenly on mine. Sloppy, uninvited, and insistent.

"Yeah, it's been awhile actually," she says, nodding quickly.

"Sorry about that. I'm sure I don't have to tell you of all people how busy I've been with this whole…"

"I know. You don't have to explain."

I smiled at her, remembering the look of surprise on her face as I pushed her away, wiping my mouth with a quiet, "Whoa."

"I'm not really explaining. I just…I'm pretty busy. That's all."

"Take a break, Spencer. Step outside and get some lunch with me."

"No, I really can't."

"Seriously, there's this crazy thing out there that you've got to see. Maybe you've heard of it? It's called the sun."

I laugh, "I read about it online, I think."

"Come on. One break. No longer than an hour, I swear."

I looked at her, saw Ashley instead. Pictured her as we stood in front of the mural and I had the sudden, frightening realization that maybe I had her all wrong, after all. Looked directly into Anna's strikingly blue eyes and instead saw them deep brown and honest.

It shook me.

"I'll go."

"Really?" she asked, visibly shocked.

"Yeah, why not? I have to eat, I guess. I mean, right? I've got to eat."

"Yeah, well…of course. Cool. Let's go, huh?" she said, gesturing towards the exit, smiling proudly.

* * *

We walked in silence, me following her and her following me. We'd never get anywhere that way. But I wouldn't fix it. Wouldn't suggest otherwise. Had no idea how to make myself care of we walked forever.

"Hey, what aboutMcCoughlin's? Happy Hour?" she asks, but she's already pulling me towards the wooden door, thumb rubbing my hand in a way that could be comforting if I allowed it to be.

We slide inside, and I'm already searching for a booth, but Anna pulls me towards a table right in the middle of the floor where we're the focal point of absolutely every other table. I'm wearing a shirt that my mother bought me in seventh grade and my hair is pulled back into an afterthought of a ponytail. I shouldn't be the focal point of anything, anywhere. But there we were under the heavy swinging lamp, dropping out bookbags on the dirty floor.

There's a table of men in black suits sitting in the booth beside us. They all smile at me and raise their beers, and Ashley's words come back to me. Hit me right in the chest.

"_See? All you girls with your artsy glasses and your ponytails think you're immune to shit like that. It's not the case."_

She was right, after all…still.

"I can grab a menu," Anna says, suddenly on her feet.

"No, sit down. Let's just do drinks."

"You shouldn't on an empty stomach."

"I'll be fine," I say, standing up to walk towards the bar, "they're on me. Guinness?"

"You know it."

She doesn't push with the mothering and I'm glad. Walking towards the bar feels like the _exact_ thing I should be doing. Couldn't wait to get my hands around a vodka and cranberry and unwillingly forget all about a night of walking and talking and knowing and wanting and hoping. Or even a day of thinking and writing and planning and filming and sighing.

It doesn't take long to get the bartender's attention, since it appears that Anna and I are the only two around with tits, and my face must practically read, "I'm a girl who wants to be drunk out of her mind."

"What can I do you for?" he asks with a nod, glancing down the bar.

"Vodka cran and a Guinness, please."

"Got it."

Suddenly, there's a hand sliding around my waist, words in my ear, "Hey, you…"

I close my eyes immediately, knowing the voice like a dream remembered the day after it comes to you in your sleep.

A nightmare, really. Because she didn't call. She didn't text.

She didn't care.

"Ashley."

"Don't say my name all serious like that. It's scary," she says with a cool laugh, looking over her shoulder at a group of girls walking towards us.

"I don't know how else to say it."

"Like you're happy to see me."

I start to respond when a tall blonde who looks like an actress interrupts, whispering in Ashley's ear. She shrugs, looks at me with a goofy grin before waving the girl towards a pool table in the back of the bar.

"That's my friend, Stacy. She's super cool. You'd love her."

"Is that so?" I ask, half-heartedly. My drinks are placed in front of me, and I grab them like they're my best friends.

"Yeah, everyone does. She's super cool."

"You said that."

"We're going out after this. Dancing, maybe? I don't know. We're just here to play pool for a second because Katie loves pool out of fucking nowhere. Everything's boring here, but you can come if you want. It's just me and like, see those girls over there?" she asks, pointing towards a group of girls that would've given me hell in high school, "those are my friends. I told them about you after New York and they thought it was really cool that we didn't totally hate each other because you know, blind dates suck. I mean, they gave me hell for going out on one in the first place, but whatever."

"We didn't totally hate each other? That's all you told them?"

"I don't know. Anyway, feel free to text me if you want to meet up. We'll probably hit up some of the usual spots and I can give you directions or…wait, what kind of phone do you have?"

"Look, I'm…"

Anna was at my side, prying her beer from my hand and smiling tightly at Ashley.

"I thought maybe you got lost," she says, moving closer to my side, but staring at Ashley.

"Maybe I did," I reply, shaking my head as Ashley glances at her phone and taps her boot-clad foot impatiently.

"I'm Ashley," she says when she finally looks up, offering up a slight wave in Anna's direction.

"Hi."

"Anyway, Spencer, you can both come. I'll get you in if you text me, ok? It was really good running into you. Take care."

Then she's walking away, and I'm watching like a forlorn puppy as Anna takes my hand and brings me crashing out of a disappointing reality and into the opportunity to forget it exists.

* * *

Three hours later, I'm stumbling into a bathroom stall, struggling to stand upright and simultaneously unbutton my jeans. The toilet paper dispenser is slowly crawling up the wall and I take that as a definite sign that I had surpassed my drinking limit, and was now plummeting into a very bad, collegiately-appropriate place.

And though it literally takes all sense and instinct I have left to successfully empty my bladder without killing myself, I have to laugh. Because, really?

_Really_?

She had talked to me like I was no one. My insanity grew with every word as she looked dumbly back and forth between me and her friends, and really? What was I expecting?

More.

The answer was _more_.

More than that.

I swayed back and forth as I walked back towards the table. Anna was emptying the last of her fifth beer and it appeared that the night was just getting started for most. But this was it for me. I needed to be disappointed alone in my apartment—perhaps in a hot bath with a tall glass of faucet water.

"Anna…home, ok?" I yelled, not really being able to help it.

"My home?" she asks with a lecherous grin.

"No, no, no. My home. You don't have to…you don't have to go or leave or whatever. I'll go. I'll go home and you'll…you can stay."

"I want to play pool," she says very seriously, as if this was the one goal she had left in life.

"Stay," I say, holding up my hands, "no problem, ok? I'm getting a cab and you're going to stay and play that and then…"

I couldn't/didn't even finish my sentence before I was sliding my bag over one shoulder and heading out into the night to find a cab.

* * *

One hour later I was in a much better position than I had been in earlier, hovering over a toilet and attempting to figure out how to focus on keeping the toilet paper dispenser still. Instead, I managed to hand over quite a but of money to my cab driver before stumbling onto the sidewalk in front of my apartment. An accomplishment, indeed.

But there, sitting on my steps like a fashion-forward angel was Ashley. She was clutching her cell phone, but smiling at me.

"Need help?" she called, as the cab sped away and I attempted to climb the steps to my building.

"I got here all by myself."

"That's good. But it looks like now you might need me."

"I don't," I answer defiantly, shaking my head.

"Oh, Spencer, but you do," she says, walking down the steps to grab my hand, "but you do…"


	5. Chapter 5

I was seeing red in the form of a smug-faced Ashley Davies. She sat on the steps to my building with her designer clutch nestled between her boot-clad feet as I stood my ground on the sidewalk before her—shifting slightly with the slightly present haze of the alcohol still coaxing me to hit pavement but still standing my ground—and waited for what she could possible say. Waiting for an explanation of how she thought she still had the right to show up at all.

"Invite me up?" she asks, innocently, gesturing upstairs with a nod of her head.

"Absolutely not."

"Spencer, I came all this way. Just for a little bit, okay? At least let me use your bathroom."

"No."

"So you're not going to let me use your bathroom?"

"No?"

"Wow. That's not very nice, is it?"

"Do you seriously need to?"

"I seriously do. This is like…an _emergency_."

"Whatever," I say, walking past her and unlocking the door, "five minutes in the bathroom and you need to leave. I'm not kidding."

* * *

Sitting across from Ashley as she nervously (or perhaps in a few random, increasing moments of utter boredom—who knows?) tapped her foot on the floor of my tiny apartment. I felt nervous about it—having her in my space after our most recent interaction, but I wanted the confrontation so desperately that I was willing to endure the inevitable awkwardness for a few painful moments. I wanted my chance to say, "You. You're pretending."

"Say something," she finally says, smiling a little. Her eyes are sincere, but my memory is persevering against the cloud of alcohol-fueled fantasy that threatens it with every millimeter of that spreading smile.

"What do you want me to say, Ashley? If you came here to have some deep conversation, analyze current events or whatever…there's literally nothing I can offer you because, guess what? I'm fucking drunk right now. I'm sure you fucking noticed, right?"

"I noticed. But I also haven't talked…"

"We haven't talked because you said you would call and you neglected to do so. That's why."

"Whoa, okay," she nods, shrugging as she reaches for her purse.

"No, Ashley! Not okay. _Not_ okay. _Why? _Why didn't you call?"

She blinks rapidly, sighs deeply before dropping her purse back on the floor and opening her mouth to speak only to close it just as quickly. And it's not fair at all. Because despite this, I'm so fucking glad to see her. To know that at least—at the very least—I hadn't conjured up this physical part of her.

"I don't need to know, I guess. I don't even need to know," I say, walking over to my bed. Noticing the green stripes of light reflected on my bedspread.

I live in a studio apartment, several stories up. All night I attempt to fall asleep fighting minor but often crippling neuroses and the screaming of the patrons at a bar down the block. But the lights…I love watching the lights as their colors stream across my wall like the very first barely moving color pictures. Sometimes those moments alone in a bed reflecting color is the only inspiration I still have.

I used to make films that were silly, but ultimately mattered because they made me so goddamn happy. The feeling of _I did that_ threatened to last forever, rendering me a slave to the camera for all of my potential days. And now I studied film. Dissected it. Let it be turned into endless technique and labeling and work right before my very disappointed eyes. So sometimes, late at night…

"No, you know…you _do_ need to know," she says, interrupting my mind rant and I have to take a moment to remember who she is, anyway.

"No."

"Spencer, I loved our date. I really did. And I think that maybe part of the reason I loved it so much is because I was with someone who had no idea of who I was supposed to be or some memory of me from junior fucking high when all I cared about was makeup and…who knows? But whatever. It was like…I could really, really be me because you had no idea who the fuck that was."

"Then, why…"

"And I get back here and…this is reality. You know? That other…that was some ideal fucking dream world and it's not possible here."

"Why not? Because you have tall, blonde, pool-playing friends who want you to go clubbing or whatever? That's it? That's your reasoning for why we can't even try to be friends?"

"You want to be my friend, Spencer? Really?" she asks with a laugh, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail.

"Not right now, actually."

She has the audacity to look hurt.

"Look, Spencer…I know that it's hard to understand. But this life out here is all I know. My dad was a rocker, my mom was a partier, and they passed that onto me. That's like, what we _did_. And now that my dad's dead and my mom is off doing whatever the fuck she's doing, these people…these 'tall blondes' are my family, okay?"

"I don't want anything from you. I don't want you to give up 'who you are.' I don't want you to give up your _lifestyle_. Here's what I'd like, okay? I'd like you to call me or invite me out and for the time that we're interacting, I want the version of you I saw in New York. Is that too much to ask? If it takes us 56 minutes to down a cup of coffee and part ways then for those 56 minutes I want _this_ person."

"So…are you ever going to call _me_ or invite _me_ out?" she asks, smiling again, "I mean, just go ahead and tell me now if this is going to be some kind of weird one-sided thing."

I laughed, "We'll see. You're kind of working off a debt right now."

"Fair enough."

"So, now…leave."

"What?"

"Leave."

She shakes her head, clearly confused, "I thought we…"

"We did, now get out."

"Are you serious?"

"Ashley, you look like you've just stepped out of a fucking catalogue and I look like I've spent the last month on 'Survivor,' I'm still marginally intoxicated, I have an 8 o'clock class, and all I want to do is fall asleep in my bathtub."

"Oh, please. You look…fine."

"Thanks, that was nice. I feel a lot better."

She laughs, standing up to walk towards me, "Are you actually fishing for compliments here? Because you know I think you're beautiful."

"Right now, really? The first thing that pops into your head when you look at me right in this very moment is, 'beautiful?' You're full of shit."

She shrugs, "Hey, it's your place, but I think I still retain my right to an opinion."

"Well…thanks, I guess. Like, a sincere 'thanks.'"

"You're welcome."

A moment that I suppose would be considered as awkward hovered between us. It was too soon for most things and too late for others. I thought maybe a hug would do, before she left for the night, but maybe that was too intimate. More intimate even than the more obvious things. I was never successful at navigating life's unclear moments.

"You'll call?" she finally says, ending my inner debate over whether to lean in for the hug.

"What?"

"Look, it's a bit hypocritical at this point to be like, 'hey, please call me.' But um…I fucked up and I realize that and now…now, I'm just pretty much ready to prove to you—and to myself I guess—that I'm not a complete fucking idiot. And the ball's in your court this time so…"

"I'll call."

"Ok, good."

"Cool."

"Why is this so fucking awkward right now?"

"I have no idea."

"I think it's you," she says, pointing accusingly, "this is your fault."

"Oh, wow. I'm sorry. Are you the one who managed to weasel her way up to my apartment by claiming she needed to use my bathroom? Because I think that girl's pretty awkward."

She laughs so hard she almost loses her balance. But for the first time all night, I don't waver at all.


	6. Chapter 6

I had been staring at my phone for the past two hours—give or take a few random minutes spent sorting my laundry, a moment or two analyzing the German flick I had Netflixed a few days before, a rather short battle with my cat involving a half-full food bowl that she saw as half-empty, and perhaps, a good seventy-eight seconds spent evaluating the benefits of wheat toast and a glass of juice as opposed to the leftovers I had neglected from the new vegan café down the block—deciding whether or not I had earned the right to call Ashley. Not so much that I had earned the right, actually. More that I had taken enough time to weigh the pros and cons of giving her another chance. Which is, you know, very different from earning a right.

Certainly I had earned the right, if such a thing even exists in situations of potentially awkward follow-up phone calls to girls that had previously blown you off only to charm their way back into your daydreams with adorable smiles and a reasonable—a bit predictable, but reasonable nonetheless—excuse as to why such typically abhorred behavior would have to do because, you know…biological parental bullshit and makeshift familial pressure and jolted realities that collapse suddenly like insistent, angry avalanches and constantly shifting roads on the journey to self-discovery…blah blah blah. I got it.

I get it.

She would have to earn my trust in order for these excuses to gain empathetic head nods and shoulder rubs from me. I was too jaded for shit like that. So maybe—just maybe—the right was hers to earn, and I, Spencer Carlin, was just a lady in waiting as she attempted to prove herself worthy…

Says a girl who had forgone both the wheat toast and the leftovers for a cherry popsicle and a lemon-lime gatorade.

But in a way, I had to understand. The shoe was on my foot at this point and making the call wasn't as easy as I had hoped. There were so many ways it could go horribly wrong, you see. I have stories. God, so many stories:

_**Date's Name: Sasha**_

_Date Location: Coffeehouse down the street_

_After a date that went seemingly okay, Sasha had insisted I call her to make future plans to peruse a Moroccan food festival the following weekend. I call. Husband answers. Mission aborted._

_**Date's Name: Brooke**_

_Date Location: Moroccan Food Festival_

_Clearly a means to get over the horror of Sasha and her beautiful husband, Stan, I meet Brooke in one of my classes and bring her along. I feel ready for a potential confrontation with Sasha, but it does not come. Instead, I realize a previously undiscovered food allergy and spend the afternoon applying topical creams to a rash that makes me look like a cartoon rendering of a raspberry. Brooke never answers her phone again. Avoids me in class by feigning a cold that apparently lasts three months. _

_**Date's Name: Amber**_

_Date Location: Hospital_

_She was my nurse. I got her number. Never called. I don't know, hard to follow up with someone who treated you for a rash._

I think in hindsight, those examples are a bit irrelevant. But the point is, I don't have the best judgment when it comes to dating and phone calls. And the idea of calling Ashley only to be disappointed a second time…it just couldn't happen. I really didn't need it all. In fact…

I looked down at my phone as it vibrated in my palm, its slight buzzing sending anxious tremors directly to my heart. I can literally _feel _it skip a beat.

And of course, it's her. Of course. As I sit pondering the customary length of time I can go before calling her, she trips me up and does what she couldn't do in the first place. Maybe I never actually regained my footing after being the one caught waiting for her at that restaurant back in New York. I mean, yeah, technically she was the one waiting, but what did the technicalities count for in the end anyway?

"Hello?" I answered, hesitantly.

"So, what if I told you that I'm outside your building right now?"

"What if I told you that I still don't remember ever giving you my address?"

"Whatever. Doesn't even matter."

"Um…I'd say that it matters a little bit because this is the second time that you…"

"Let me in or come down. I want to go somewhere with you," she says, and I can tell that she's smiling.

"I have too much work to do."

I stare at the pile of papers on my desk with contempt. I hadn't touched that pile in hours. Instead, I had been fearing a phone call and contemplating the idea of making a popsicle stick cabin. It's amazing, isn't it, the things one will come up with to avoid responsibilities?

"Spencer, look, there's no way in hell that on your death bed…"

"Oh, God. Not a 'death bed' reference, please."

"Listen! As I was saying," she continued, clearing her throat, dramatically, "there's no way that on your death bed you're going to be looking back thinking, 'man, I wish I had done more work.' There's just not. Instead, you'll be thinking about all the fun you missed out on."

"I have fun."

"That's fantastic. Come have fun with me, then."

"My work is fun. And…_and_ rewarding, okay?"

"Fine. Let me up there."

"Why?"

"I brought you a present. Let me up."

"So last time you used my bathroom as an excuse and this time you supposedly come bearing gifts? Call me crazy, but I'm having a hard time believing you."

"Wow, really? That's weird. Let me up."

I sighed, deeply.

"Fine."

----------------

"It's nice, you know? This apartment," she says, walking the hardwood slowly, causing all sorts of creaks and moans beneath her heels.

She picks up frames, presumptuously. Puts them back down immediately, as if she understands how invasive she's being only when an object is actually resting in her hand.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? It's a studio apartment in a shitty building in one of those neighborhoods that people are always saying you have to _grow to like_."

"It has like…character, though. You know what I mean? It actually _says_ something about who you are."

"I really, really, really hope this place doesn't say anything about me because seriously…"

"I know a lot of people, and I've been inside a lot of pretty terrible apartments that were decorated by someone with a license to do it and I'm going to tell you, Spencer, this is among the top I've seen. Hands down."

"Speaking of which, could you put that down?" I ask, gesturing at the VHS tape she's tapping against her hand, "it's important."

"Oh, sorry. What is it? Ballet recital? Kindergarten graduation?"

"It's the first movie I ever made. It stars two promising actors—myself and my brother—and some pretty fancy cinematography, so you know…important stuff."

"Oh, wow! Okay, I see. This is the big tape, right? This is the 'I'm Spencer Carlin the future filmmaker' tape. I feel lucky just to have held it in my hands for those three and a half seconds."

"You should, my friend. It's a fucking national treasure."

She laughs, holding up the glass of water I had offered her half an hour ago and taking a long sip. I stare at her, because once again, her eyes are closed and it gives me the permission to do so. I'm brought back to a moment in a memory that was getting harder and harder to retain with every new sighting of that adorable fucking face.

"You want to do something with me?" she asks, looking nervous for a second before her face quickly recovers.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Go have lunch…dinner, maybe? It's late for lunch, I guess. Or um…we could see a movie—one that I want to see because I know if I let you pick I would be sitting through something with subtitles and irony or whatever."

"That's sweet and insightful. Thanks so much."

"You're welcome."

"I was thinking of working through the night, though. That's the thing. I've got to get caught up on all this shit or I'll never get ahead."

She wants to speak. It's obvious as her mouth opens and closes like an awkward goldfish, but instead she just nods with a bit of conviction and stands up.

"You don't have to leave yet," I say quickly, not quite being able to say the truth. The truth being that I didn't know what else to say but that I had plans to work because I was still nervous just having her around. I was saying anything. Literally _everything_ that came to my head.

All she says is a quiet, "No," before she strides quickly over to where I'm sitting on the edge of my bed.

Suddenly, her lips are on mine. Her hands buried mercilessly in my already unruly hair. And _fuck_. She is the softest surviving person walking the planet. Dangerously soft. Easily bruised and an unhealthy prepensity for random papercut violence soft.

As predicted, she tasted like Orbit gum and fruit-infused bottled water.

"Let's go somewhere tonight," she says, pulling away with her eyes still closed, "I want to show you off."

"I'm not exactly the type of girl that one _shows off, _Ashley."

"Of course you are. You're smart and hot and you have really nice hair. I mean, seriously. What part of that isn't the type?"

"I don't know…"

"I want to make up for the other night."

"You don't have to," I say, giving in to the urge to rest my forehead against hers.

I still can't breathe.

"But I do. And I want to. So let's go."

I felt as though it was too soon to try her world again. I didn't want the disappointment of realizing for a second time that she and I weren't sharing a planet, but suddenly my head was resting only on air and her hands were jointly pulling me up.

I relent.


	7. Chapter 7

**You guys were really awesome with the feedback last time, and I just wanted to take a second to thank you guys for the support and for reading. I really appreciate it a lot, and of course, I'm very pleased to know that there are some people out there who are enjoying this story. So, that being said...**

-------------

There was a pounding bass and over the loud requests for additional shots and the _Oh, there's my friend (!) _calls from a series of intoxicated young women and the click-shut behind individuals filtering into the restrooms and the nauseating sound of crunching glass underneath an endless stream of heels and boots and and the almost infuriatingly simple conversations being tossed back and forth across the floor between people whose eyes had nothing to reveal or offer, I heard her.

She would lean over, whispering nonsense into my right ear whenever she would feel my shoulder tense defensively. And God only knows what I was defensive about. But because I've always been a little dramatic, a little bit _too _much even if it was only a performance that took place in my untrustworthy head, perhaps there was this ancient tribal urge running through my veins to protect the life of me and my supposed tribe and destroy the one that could be witnessed before me in this club on a street whose name I really, really needed to forget—and yet remember—so as never to allow this to happen to me ever, ever, ever again.

But then there was that presence next to me. And it felt good—warm—as I leaned into it to let her know I was listening, even if I couldn't necessarily hear. I felt her words hit my ear, and somehow this was almost the same.

At the moment, the only thing I could actually hear was that now familiar crunching of broken glass on an already dangerous dance floor as a group of girls walked toward us. They formed a triangle of importance—the leader in front and the submissives on either side of her, one step behind—as they made their way. The one in front was clearly the most vocal, and I saw her smile and nod at Ashley and now it was my turn to feel a shoulder tense and stiffen beside me.

"You know them?" I asked, shouting directly into her ear, even though it was pointless.

She shook her head, still making eye contact with the triangle, and I couldn't tell if she was trying to tell me "no," or if she simply couldn't hear me. I got my answer when that warm presence was gone and Ashley's arms were wrapping around the vocal one.

_Not again, _was my first thought, but I fought it tooth and nail because I mean, really? She couldn't even _know _someone without my insecurities rearing their unattractive heads?

"Ashley, nice," she said, stepping back to survey her outfit, "I like that."

"Thanks, and um…"

_Oh no. _It was time for the awkward introduction. The time when I could potentially embarrass myself and possibly all others who had previously identified with me with with either a moment of clumsiness as I extended my hand forward or…wait. Maybe the actual extension of the hand was the awkward part. Do people still do that, shake hands? I had no idea. Or maybe I would say something unintentionally forward or personal when all I should really say is a perfectly executed, "hey" with maybe a slight smile or a casual but ultimately endearing wave before gracefully gesturing at the bartender for two more shots. But who was I kidding? I had been trying to get the bartender's attention for the last twenty minutes just so I could get an orange juice with an umbrella and had achieved very little success, so why now? Why, self, would this be the moment where he would acknowledge me and my growing thirst from twenty feet away and slide a beverage my way? No. I had been through this whole fantasy-scenario game before with unsatisfactory results.

It was called high school.

"This is Spencer," Ashley said, placing an almost possessive hand on my lower back as if to ground me, "Spencer, _Brooke._"

"Nice to meet you," I said, sliding my hands in my pockets to keep from doing something awkward with them.

So far, so good.

"You too," Brooke replied, glancing back at the rest of her triangle with a smile.

"Did you guys just get here?" Ashley asked.

"Nah, but hey, you know who's here tonight?"

Ashley shook her head, sighing deeply. Clearly, she could tell just from Brooke's face exactly who was there.

"You know who, and she's got a a ton of fucking shit on her."

Either I was out of the loop or this mystery person should be showering instead of clubbing.

"Of course she does," Ashley said, with a bitter laugh.

"Coke, X, and a lot of other pills too, I think. She told me to hit her up later…and you know, if you want something but you don't want to talk to her or whatever, let me know. I'll get some for you too."

Ok, okay. So not _actual_ shit. Just a shitload of narcotics. I would've preferred the originality of actual shit, actually. Because the last thing I wanted was to find myself in the middle of was a bunch of pill-popping urbanites trying to re-live their glory days in a short skirt and a necessary haze.

I turned to Ashley, eyebrow raised. Because while I sort of believed she hung the moon and possibly a few stars as well, I still had fucking standards.

"No, not tonight. And I really don't want to see her, so I guess I'll um…I'll see you guys later," she said, her grip on my back almost uncomfortable now.

Brooke shrugged, and reached out to hug Ashley a second time, "See you."

I waited to speak, timing myself by counting the _click-clack_ of her friends' heels as they journeyed toward the other side of the club. I wanted to give her a chance to explain without me asking, but her eyes were nervously scanning the room.

"Ash?"

She looked at me as if she was surprised to see me still standing beside her, "Yeah?"

"Who's the drug clown?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry. Let me try again…who are you looking for right now?"

"Oh," she said, running her fingers through her hair and sighing again, "my ex. It's just my fucking ex."

She was still difficult to hear, but luckily my lip-reading was beginning to improve with every second spent in the walls of that club. Just another resume booster.

"Ah, I see."

"I'm…you know, I'm not really in the mood to deal with that right now."

"Then we leave, yeah?" I say, pointing to the entrance.

The idea of leaving thrilled me.

She nodded, as if somehow the option hadn't even occurred to her until it left my lips, "Let's do it."

--------------

An hour later we sat at my favorite vegan diner, drinking soyshakes and eating veggie burgers while every kind of hip character walked through the door. Ashley would turn her head every time the little bell tied to the door would ring so she could understand why my facial expression had changed so drastically mid-bite.

"Oh my God, look at this guy," I whispered, kicking her foot under the table.

"Ow…shit, where?"

I waited until she spotted the target, so obvious in its absurdity that I knew no vocal explanation would be necessary.

"Holy fucking…what the hell is _that_? No, seriously. Is that a fucking parrot right now, Spencer? Please tell me that dude just brought a parrot in a diner."

"Ashley?"

"Yeah?" she asked, quickly shifting around in her side of the booth to give me the most adorable "waiting face" the world had never seen.

"That dude just brought a parrot in a diner," I said.

"Wow. L.A. is out of control."

"Sometimes it's a little bit perfect. Sometimes it makes people feel comfortable enough to bring their exotic animals in for a late-night snack. And you know what? I love it. I absolutely love it. God bless L.A."

"Here, here!" she cheered with an affirmative nod, clinking our glasses together in a sort of makeshift, one-person toast.

"So um…are we going to talk about what happened back there? Or you know what? I can pretend it never happened at all. In fact…"

"I'm not like, a drug addict or anything, okay? Sometimes if I'm out and there's nothing else to do, I might take something. But the way she was making it sound…it's not like that."

"See, that's the thing I don't get—even when other people say it. Like, how does it work that you have nothing else to do and so you settle on drugs? What's the point?"

"I don't know. It's just a really easy way to have fun, I guess."

"Who needs an easy way to have fun? Since when is _fun_ hard to have?"

She thinks for a second. Uses the break in conversation to sip from her straw, thoughtfully, "So you're telling me that in recent history, it's been easy for you to have fun?"

"Oh no, not at all."

She laughs, loudly and I continue, "Look, I'm working on stuff for school all the time. I have to force myself to do other things. And sometimes those things can accidentally be fun."

"I'm having fun with you right now."

"I'm glad."

"So what are we going to do, Spence? Avoid my friends and only go on these crazy adventures and have these ridiculous conversations that go on for hours?"

"It scares me that you consider this an adventure."

"I know, I know. But it feels like that when we hang out even if we're doing something ordinary," she says, and I'm not even sure if she's aware how sweet she's just been.

"I wouldn't go as far as to use the word 'ordinary' either. I mean, there's a parrot staring at the back of your head right now."

She turns her head and finds it to be true and laughs all over again. And while she does, I smile and consider what's been said. Can we? Can we do things like this all the time? Pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist unless we ask it to and like each other more and more all the time?

"That's such a health-code violation, I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Ashley, can I ask you a question?"

"Uh-huh."

"Would it still be fun if…could you do this with me, all the time and still like it? Or would you miss being with someone who has an alphabet of uppers, downers, and tranquilizers?"

"Granted, you'd be my fucking dream girl if you were exactly like you are but also had loads and loads of drugs on you at all times," she says, taking another sip from her shake, "but yeah, I think I could still like it."

"I want you to meet my friends."

"Will I hate them?"

"Not as much as I hate yours."

"Are you sure? Because I think it's extremely important for our future that we hate each other's friends. Like, _a lot_."

"One of them has twelve cats, a cappuccino maker that cost more than my childhood home, and yells at people who wear perfume."

"Perfect."


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi, guys. Sorry this took so long this time. February is becoming a really, really busy month for me. But also, I actually just found the chapter a bit difficult to write. The combination of the two equals a fairly late update. Once again, I apologize and thank you for being patient with me and this story. Also, thanks so much for the feedback because some of it has really made my days lately and I really do appreciate that. I hope you enjoy the chapter and I'll see you again soon. :)**

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She glanced at me, partially hidden behind the overstuffed, "decorative" pillows adorning my couch as she reclined peacefully. She gained more contentment watching bad reality television marathons than I could even begin to fathom, but having her mere feet away from me calmed me. Prioritized my anxiety. Reminded me of the very necessary reality of a _something else_, when images of dancing, gyrating deadlines flashed in my consistently worried head.

Every five minutes or so, she would stretch completely, arms above her head and toes reaching down over the side of the couch. I would have to watch. Absolutely nothing I could do to stop myself from bearing witness again and again and again. I loved the small exhalation and way her eyes would close in anticipation and the millimeters of skin that would appear as her shirt slid slightly north and then returned south, leaving me both sad and in awe.

The mere idea of sleeping with her had left me a shivering, teenage-esque mess. All I could do was contemplate the ways to get it wrong. Hands in weird places, the random "ouch" and an occasional, "no, not there," were all very real aspects of my very unreal mind ramblings of what touching her for longer than five seconds could do to me. And what could it do, really? What could it do besides destroy my pride, render me sexually scarred for life, cause me to quit school in order to provide myself more time to obsess over the failure, and coincidentally lead to me becoming homeless and possibly suffering through a self-induced version of schizophrenia?

Nothing. Nothing at all when put in its proper perspective.

And it's as if she could tell just by looking at me, purposely not looking at her. So she didn't even try. Sometimes—most times—she would pull me in instead, smother me to the point of heavily invited exhaustion with a hug and a lingering kiss to the forehead and walk away to allow me space. I would somehow (eventually) remember how to breathe correctly and we would resume our wandering conversation on opposite sides of my apartment until it would begin and end and begin and end and begin and end all over again.

It had been five short days since that night in the diner, and we had seen each other all five nights. Sometimes, she would come over just to watch "Top Model " marathons on Bravo while I pecked away at my keyboard in a half-assed, uninspired attempt to finish the dry, daunting research for my final project. I would sigh heavily, bury my face in my hands and wait for the latest wave of anxiety to pass and she would be sitting, staring at me with a knowing smile when I finally looked up again.

"Sighs of genius, I'm sure," she would say, or maybe something close to it, and I would smile back and shake my head.

"Sighs of sadness and regret, Ashley. I'm disappointed that you haven't worked out the difference yet."

"I know the difference. I just don't agree with you about what each one means."

"What do they mean then?"

"One means that you wish you could say, 'fuck it' and come over here and watch this with me. Another means that you just remembered that you still have no groceries in your refrigerator. Then there's the one that lets me know that you're no longer satisfied masturbating to secret pictures you take of me with your phone."

"Get out."

Then she'd laugh, head thrown back without reserve (I envied her for it) and un-mute my dinosaur of a television to resume her lesson from Tyra on smiling with her eyes.

As if she needed a lesson to begin with…

But then there were other times. The times she had known existed when I could think of nothing else but knowing exactly what it was to be inside her. So I battled with my desires 24/7, journeying back and forth between what I wanted and reaching no conclusion. Just journeying for the sake of journeying, I suppose.

"You're not typing. And we both know that means you're daydreaming."

"I'm so not," I threw back, defensively, feeling as though she already knew me a bit too well. It startled me. Made me a bit uncomfortable around the edges.

"Oh, but you are. It's fine…as long as you share."

"Share what?"

She sat up from her reclining position on my couch, "What are you daydreaming about?"

I made a noise as if to answer her, but said nothing. It wasn't as though I could give her the truth, right? I couldn't exactly say, "oh, I was just thinking about whether or not I could more adequately handle fucking you or not fucking you and if the results of said potential fucking could possibly lead to a lifetime of unemployment and general settling."

Apparently, such truths aren't often encouraged.

"Stuff."

"I swear, Spence, it's as if you can't help yourself. You're just a poet 24/7. Incredible."

"I'm sure all of your miniature plastic friends from the bar have raised your standards over the years for conversational prowess, but I can only try my best, here. So cut me some slack."

"At least give me an adjective."

I pretended to think hard, resting my chin on my fist, "_Peppered_. Is that an adjective?"

"Is that seriously the one you're using right now?"

"I mean, I get that it can be a verb, right? But I think it's a multi-tasker."

"You're so strange."

"You like it."

"Do I?" she asks, wrinkling her nose and feigning confusion.

"To a point where it's almost a bit frightening to be perfectly honest."

"Wow. I had no idea."

"Yeah, it's pretty intense."

"Jeez…how do you even deal with me?"

"Well, lucky for me, it's like having a small child. I just turn on the TV and you're quiet for like, hours. Occasionally you complain that you're hungry—but that's really only during commercials and then you just as quickly forget about it the second your marathon of choice resumes and all is well."

"I think that maybe it's possible that I actually hate you," she says. But she does so with a smile so wide that it's not even an option to take her seriously.

"If you hate me, Ashley, why have you spent the last four hours in my apartment?"

"The ambiance, obviously."

"Mock it if you will, but this apartment has been good to me."

"Come over here. I'll be good to you."

I (once again) open my mouth to speak and instead say nothing. Her face is more serious now, and I realize that yeah, eventually I'm going to have to be a normal, actively-dating adult and touch her. Be touched. Possibly ruin both of our lives.

"I literally can't."

"Fine," she says, pushing herself up and off of my couch, and walking toward my makeshift desk with sudden purpose, "I'll come to you then. Story of our, um…friendship."

"How so?" I ask, buying time. Swallowing nervously.

"Do you ever wonder where I live, Spencer? What time I get up for work? If I get up for work at all?" she asks, finally reaching the edge of my desk chair and resting her hand gently on the back of my neck, "you have to actually exist in _my_ life at some point, you know? I mean, I want to meet your friends. I want to sit and watch you type…is that so terrible? Don't you want to watch me type?"

"God, not really."

"Okay, granted it's not fun. But you know what I'm talking about."

"Maybe," I said, slowly.

She had gone from seductress to _this_ in a matter of seconds. And as frightening as the idea was of being a sexual disappointment, I really wanted the previous Ashley back.

"You and I are great when we're like, out at some diner or if we're in your apartment all night or if we're walking around in New York where no one knows us. But Spencer, if this thing between us is actually going to be something, we have to have a little reality. We just do, okay? Like, I think that…"

"This is reality."

She looks stunned for a moment, as if she's having trouble with the idea that she and I could actually see this differently, "This is reality, really? It's real to never go anywhere or do anything or acknowledge the outside world? I had no idea."

"I think we've seen pretty clearly, Ashley, that our realities don't mesh. That's not our fault, but it's like…I don't fucking understand the point of having a job where you just throw parties or whatever. I don't get that. I don't understand the benefit of associating with idiotic cokeheads. It boggles my mind how you can be _this_ person and_ that_ person and not be lying about which one is actually you," I said, angry that I would even have to explain something so obvious, "because, guess what? This person that you see right now in front of you is me. This is me all the time. I'm not one way around my friends and a completely different way around you. _That's _reality."

I could feel my neck and shoulders tensing, my heart racing, and the slow creep of panic everywhere. It was made worse when I finally focused in on her face. She was smiling. But it wasn't the smile that warmed me from across the room. It was different. Cold.

"Of course this is you. Of course this gets to be you, because your reality is somehow superior to mine, right? Your pseudo-intellectual, holier than thou bullshit stays with you. I think that's great. I, on the other hand, know a lot of different kinds of people and I don't judge them based on what they wear or drive or what they need to feel like they fit in."

"Please," I say, shaking my head.

"You can say whatever you want, but it's true. And please, _please_ keep in mind that you and I met through a _mutual_ friend. It's like you don't get that. I have friends like Kate and I have friends like you and I have friends like the girls you met in the bar, so yeah…apparently that's just me being a liar or confused about who I am or whatever. I would be so much better off if I sat in my apartment editing the same sentence over and over because I have no fucking inspiration. And why don't I have it? Because I'm the most narrow-minded person the world has ever briefly seen. Brilliant, okay? You're fucking brilliant. But seriously, like so closed off it hurts."

"Get the fuck out of my apartment. Really. You have no idea who I am, and the fact that you can stand there and…"

"And _you_ don't know who I am! The difference between us is that I actually _want_ to know who you are and you want to know as little about me as humanly possible so that you can just assign me the traits that you feel comfortable dealing with."

"No."

"Oh, yeah…oh, definitely. I think so."

"The thing is, Ashley, I don't care what you think."

"Of course you do. Who the fuck do you think you're kidding? _Of course_ you do. And do you want to know why…huh? Do you want to know?" she asked, backing away from me as if to make room for all the enlightenment she was poised to provide.

I looked at her for a second and saw something there so terrifying that I couldn't even begin to deal. There were possible truths there—my truths—waiting in her mouth to unravel me completely. I instead settled for a look around my apartment. Nothing had changed. And she waited, baiting me with impatient sighs and I couldn't.

I just _couldn't._

"I'm going to tell you anyway," she said, finally, looking sad that she would even have to, "because I have a feeling that I won't…well, whatever. I don't know."

"Say it, okay? Just say it and then leave. Come on."

"I've spent a long time—maybe not my entire life—but a long fucking time feeling like I wasn't good enough for people like you. Like I wasn't smart enough or clever enough or unique enough to even register with someone like you. And I get this chance to actually talk and say things and be taken seriously and it just…I can't even describe to you what it feels like to know that there's someone out there who gets it and cares and maybe went a little deeper than what I look like to decide if I was worth their time and…it felt good, I guess. That's the only way I know how to say it. I felt good enough. So, you don't think you fit some L.A. stereotype and you're above it, right? Like, you get to sit on some pedestal and pretend you're too good for it. Well, it's who my parents were. It's what they gave me. It's all they knew and so it was all they _could_ give me and I'm sorry if it actually isn't good enough for you. I'm sorry if being a fucking party planner isn't something you understand—which by the way, I realize just translates to the fact that it's beneath you—and you still don't get why I would be friends with certain people because they happen to leave their apartments and don't quote obscure novels when they're feeling out of their element and therefore have to resort to making people feel stupid, then I guess we were both wrong about who we thought we were. I guess you and I weren't made to ever interact. Our worlds are just a little too far apart to feel safe travelling the distance. I mean, what can we do? It's out of our hands."

There was no need in turning back now. Anything I could even think to say was out of a pure desire to survive the moment and the results were going to burn, regardless, "You didn't even answer the question."

"I apologize. To answer the question, I know that you care what I think because you and I are the same. Hiding from some sort of ridiculous social anxiety underneath an identity created by people who don't even fucking know us. Because the actual truth about you, Spencer, is that you're one layer of makeup and ten minutes out in the sun away from being some typical L.A. face, okay? Like, seriously. Look in a mirror. And I'm a couple away from being the girl next door who wouldn't even be invited to the party, let alone _plan_ it. And the horror, because those are the last things we think we want to be and yet…right there. So close. That's the way it is. But I guess it doesn't matter. Because this is _literally_ an issue of somehow being way too close and yet, way too far apart to bridge the gap. And you and I should just go back to what we know and accept it."

"Guess so," I choked out, needing her to leave so I could react with all of the emotion I actually felt. Showing her would only make this worse.

She didn't respond.

I waited momentarily for tears, but there were none. Instead, she gave me a sad shrug before turning on her heels and heading straight for the door. While Tyra judged and critiqued and ultimately decided in the background—an image blurred by my immediate, desperate tears—I could only wonder if there would ever be another chance to see Ashley smile with her eyes.

And could I handle it if there was.


	9. Chapter 9

"So, let me make sure I got all that, Spence. Okay, after that whole 'not calling you when she said she would after your trip here' fiasco, everything was cool? Like, it was good?"

"I mean, for the…"

"And then you two go out to some club or something and she runs into these kids that are all hopped up on the meth and the crack and the cocaine and the…what else? Oh, and the acid and the…"

"Probably not the meth…or the crack…"

"Homegirl flips the fuck out and you two go chill at some stupid, bullshit vegan diner that you more than likely suggested because, you know, you're _like_ that."

"What does that even mean, Kate? And when did you become so _urban_? Is that a new thing you're trying out because let me be the first to tell you…"

"After that, life is fantastic until all of a sudden she has a Tyra-induced panic attack in your living room/kitchen/bathroom and now you two haven't spoken in like, a week. Which we both know—actually, you probably don't know—is practically a _year_ in new couple terms."

"I wouldn't even say that we were actually a couple, though. That's the thing. I don't even know how I'm supposed to react because she and I weren't even…"

"And now you're calling me for advice because something we _definitely _both know is that I'm the relationship guru of life and anything I say, no matter how flawed, is twenty-seven times better than anything you could come up with because you suck at relationships, yes?"

"No."

"So we agree."

"No."

"I mean, really, _really_ suck."

"Wow, um…no."

"Yeah, so how do you feel?"

"What?"

"You heard me. How do you _feel_? Do you miss her? Is it even worth commiserating? What's up?"

"I don't know. She and I…we're really, really different. And I know that doesn't seem like enough to justify not trying or whatever. I know that. But she said a lot. Like, she said a lot of things that seemed like the kind of stuff she's been _waiting_ to say to me, you know? And when I say _me_, I mean like the version of me she went to high school with whose name was 'Margaret-Ann' and rocked a briefcase instead of a backpack and never waved back at her or whatever. And I'm not really sure where that was coming from, if not from the fact that she's been feeling super, super judged by me or like, she feels as though everything with us has had to happen on my terms. I don't know. But if she's been harboring all this resentment towards me and Margaret-Ann—regardless of if it's valid—why would I even _try_ to move forward with anything? Why would I even want to? I know it's hard to believe—and also, it's a complete and total lie—but I don't pursue people that hate me. Just bonkers like that, I guess."

"Do you like her?"

"When we're hanging out one-on-one, yeah. I do. But apparently, that time is an illusion because it only exists in my world. And if it can't happen in hers, with the booze and the drugs and the partying and the Tyra and the whatever else, then it's not real."

"Stop being ridiculous. You know she's more than all that."

"I thought so. But she stood in front of me and told me that somehow what I thought wasn't real, so what do I know?"

"Fine. _I _know she's more than that."

"Has she called you?"

"Oh, Spencer…"

It had been a week, yes. Eight days, technically, but who's counting? And I hadn't heard from Ashley via text, phone call, FedEx, instant message, fax, e-mail, letter, postcard, tweet, personalized billboard, chorus of singing gay men or children, local newspaper ad, Hermes, ProFlowers, Facebook message/wall post/status update, or knock on my door.

But who's keeping track, really?

In all fairness, I hadn't exactly surrendered myself to a form of communication either, but it was different. She had done all the talking, and I had done the hearing. It wasn't a satisfactory version of listening because I still couldn't tell you exactly what her point was. You see, I don't comprehend ranting. Not in any of its forms. And especially not when it begins after a possibly sexual advance and a smile. Instead, I value a little thing called _conversation_. Heard of it? It goes back and forth, people have an opportunity to make their points known and to listen and understand the points of others. It's a good, good thing.

If Ashley had been feeling as though there was some kind of weird, secret requirement that everything between us take place on my terms, in my language, and for my enjoyment, then why hadn't she said anything earlier? Why was there no conversation about it? How could I change something I didn't even know was occurring?

"Spence?"

"Sorry, yeah. Has she called you?"

"Did you not hear anything I just said?"

"Um…uh-huh."

"Whatever. I said, yes, she's called. And no, I'm not telling you what she said because that would make me a bad friend."

"Well, it sort of makes you a bad friend to _me_ if you don't tell me, right?" I say, even though I've known Kate for too long not to know the answer, "_right_?"

"I hope you're kidding."

"Fine, I am. But still, Kate, I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do. And since she and I clearly have too much ego to settle this like adults…"

"Whoa, how would you know?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You haven't even spoken to her. How do you know it's an ego thing? How do you know she's not just figuring shit out like you are, Spencer?"

"You know what, Kate?"

"What, Spencer?" she says, releasing a gargantuan sigh directly into the phone.

"I don't like this at all."

"What don't you like, Spencer?"

"I don't like sharing my friend with the person I think I might have been dating, okay? It sucks. Because you're supposed to be on my side right now. That's why you call your friends when things like this happen. So that those friends make sure that you're thoroughly convinced that nothing—_nothing_—is your fault. Then those friends tell you how hot and smart and funny you are, and how the person you were dating is the one missing out. That's what people do. That's why people have friends in the first place!"

"You're an idiot."

"See? _See_? That's totally not what you're supposed to be saying to me right now. You're supposed to be telling me that I'm a goddamn genius."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Okay, fine. Spencer?"

"Yes, Kate?"

"You're an idiot. Call her," she said quickly before hanging up.

* * *

After my talk with Kate, I was more uncertain than ever. I wasn't socially equipped to handle things like this. Where both people are a little bit wrong and you can't even measure who's the _most_ wrong because you're using completely different methods to account for all the damage.

Ashley's words had stung. There was no disputing that. It was as if she had discovered everything I had hoped to never be in a five-second time span and had chosen to hurl every descriptive word back at me as a means to break me in the fastest way possible. And she had no history to go on. Had no idea where I had come from or why I would be terrified of a life lived like hers or worse—why I would be terrified of a life lived like mine. Closed-off and suspicious. Quick to assess and immediately dismiss and hiding a bit behind knowledge realized and written about by people like me. I just needed what I knew for sure. That's all. I needed it.

Walking in circles around my apartment (very small circles,) I tried to come up with some answers. Something to say if she were to call right in that moment and say a careful, "_hello_" and then wait for me to speak. Finally given the opportunity, what would I say? How would I say it? And would I be angry and sad or desperate and apologetic?

My brother Glen died the first time when I was a sophomore in high school. He was the family jewel. All talented and likeable and I hovered in his shadow like he was fucking Peter Pan just to be part of something that foreign. He played basketball day and night and planned his future with a cruel kind of tunnel vision that was almost frightening. He always knew exactly where he wanted to go and I always knew that it wasn't safe to plan because plans meant disappointments and disappointments could mean disaster. But when an injury snatched away his vision, he found another in the bottom of a bottle of painkillers. He became his own shadow. Retreated into it. And he didn't shift his gaze from the bottom for three years. And yeah, it sounds like the typical story. I tell it better and better each time and with a series of more commanding dramatic pauses. But the thing is, that was my brother. He was actual.

War killed him next. Apparently there's no coming back from that kind of death. And now I'm seen completely—hovering or not, there I am. Now he's in _my_ shadow. Sometimes, I can literally feel him stepping on my heels making sure I get this shit right.

I try to get it right as often as I possibly can.

* * *

Writing wasn't coming easily. I could see my fingers touching keys, hear the _clickclickclickclick_ as they moved quickly across the keyboard like technical choreography. But I wasn't present. Wasn't aware. Instead, my eyes became fixated on the sidewalk outside of my apartment window like always. I had seen more cinematic brilliance staring out that window than I had ever seen sitting alone in the dark, staring into the light as cell phones and babies had their way with my enjoyment.

I had seen the ends of relationships and the beginnings of all kinds of happiness and free dog fights and discarded—luckily empty—strollers rolling slowly down the decline. It always surprised me to look down on people and realize that we're all actually doing this thing. They all have entire lives that they're going to answer for here or there or somewhere or never and it's just as big, just as heavy and all-important as mine…to them. Sometimes the only thing scarier than realizing you're alone is realizing that you're not. At least for me.

_clickclickclickclickclick_...

This day, two men were arguing, hands moving around violently like windmills as they yelled and listened to nothing. Not a conversation, just an argument. And you can't win an argument because the rules are changing constantly and both players have no idea where the finish line lies. You keep track of the points, sounding your own gong when you manage to present one without losing your train of thought or crying or realizing halfway through that you're wrong. What kind of a game is that? What's the incentive?

I couldn't hear what was being said, but I could see the hand movements getting more and more intense until finally the taller one forfeited and shoved the shorter one two feet backwards and onto the sidewalk. It had to feel good to stop with all the talking and finally just make a complete ass out of himself to prevent himself from looking like…well, an ass.

I couldn't watch after that. I had too much invested.


	10. Chapter 10

You guys have been extremely generous with your feedback and I appreciate it immensely. Sorry this update took so long! Enjoy...

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"So, it's me…Spencer. It's Spencer. I um…I've been avoiding making this phone call, I guess. I mean, obviously. And uh…I thought that if I called, it would be like I was admitting fault or something. You know, whoever calls first is the one who fucked up last or whatever. I don't know. Maybe I made that up…which isn't really important right now, is it? Okay, well the thing is…I don't really care whose fault it is or was or whatever. I don't think that even _matters_ anymore. All I know is that right now it seems really stupid that I haven't talked to you in over two weeks and it's because of this two-minute…_thing _that happened. I didn't even really _happen_. It just _was_ somehow. And now it seems to have rendered who we were non-existent or something. I think that's ridiculous. I think we were more than two minutes worth of shouting and I really wish that we could just…I wish we could just stop caring about who the fuck we hang out with when we're not together and just…talk. I know that there are reasons for why I am the way I am and I assume the same goes for you, _right_? So let's meet up somewhere. I honestly don't care where as long as it's a place that'll serve me root beer. I've been craving root beer for like, God…four days? _Five_ days? Anyway, I hate that I have to say this to your voicemail. Not the root beer part. The other stuff. I don't even know why I just said that. Obviously you knew what part I was fucking talking about. Jeez…sorry. Despite the fact that I'm clearly an idiot, call me back. I um…I miss you. I do. And I want to try, okay? I want us to try to get this right because…because when I'm with you, it just…it _feels_ too good not to be right. Okay? It just feels like the right kind of good. I don't mean to sound like Meg Ryan circa '99, but it's true. Also—"

I sighed deeply, hands in hair, head slowly dropping to my knees. The whole nine. And it was as if I could feel every heartbeat, the tiny little pauses in between, and hear the sound resonating inside my ears.

_Boom._

_Boom._

_Boom._

Everything was heightened, felt important, when in reality I was merely a girl holding a phone, broken and confused and a prophet of a thousand self-fulfilling prophecies on a mission towards utter and complete self-destruction. Just like everyone else in this city.

Just like her.

She spoke frantically in the background, voice small and cartoon-like through the receiver of my phone as I cradled it between my hand and my bare leg as if it was _her_ hand. From the very first word of her modern-day peace offering, I felt like crying. It would've been the first tears shed in a very, very long time. And I wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared for any of that. Wasn't prepared for any part of her, really. Wasn't prepared for _anything _that wasn't completely habitual.

"Who's that?"

I paused the voicemail immediately, throwing my phone on the coffee table and making everything substantially more obvious.

"No one," I said in vain.

"It's her."

"What?"

"It's _her_. It's the girl."

My _half_-sister was _all _sorts of smug as she collapsed next to me on the couch, smile plastered and infuriatingly still. Had my father not given into late-night dalliances on the road, I would be sitting alone in epically depressing peace, drinking Lemonata and feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I was sitting beside someone who knew me a bit too well to take me at face-value after years of battle and wishing for the more efficient end of a grand piano to fall from the sky with accuracy.

"Okay, fine. It's the girl," I said with a shrug of feigned indifference, "happy? So what?"

"Ashley, are you serious right now?"

"What?!"

"You're not going to call her back?"

"Kyla, here's the thing. You don't know anything about the situation, so until you do…"

"I know enough. I've seen you walking around like a fucking zombie for the last couple of weeks. I mean, call me crazy but I don't think that's good. But what do I know?"

"She and I are too different. We're both coming in with all of this bullshit and the thing is, like, when you're with someone who's _like_ you or whatever, then they get it. The bullshit's not foreign to them because most of the time, they're dragging around the exact same shit as you are, right? But with the girl…_Spencer_, she has this whole new variety of bullshit and she's never seen mine and she doesn't know…and _I _don't know. Everything—_everything_—is new. I don't want her to think that I'm this dumb, apathetic, shallow person. And I don't want her to think that I don't comprehend how incredible she is either, you know? I want her to know that I get it."

"Can I tell you what else is new?"

"What?"

"You caring like this. Like, actually caring about someone and their opinion of you and not just because of some weird ego…thing. But like, it matters to you what she thinks of you. Not what you're wearing or how awesome some party you threw was. _You_."

"Yeah…"

"Ashley, look at me," she says, leaning forward and holding my hair back so that she's staring directly into my eyes, "this is good. This is really, really good. Trust it, okay? Can you not trust a good thing?"

It was too much. Because I couldn't. Because I didn't know how. Almost everything good in my life had been an illusion. _Good_ meant hard. And I had always walked away from hard.

"What do I do?"

"It's been two weeks. You haven't come up with anything in two weeks?"

"Are you serious right now?"

"Call her. It's that simple."

"But she and I…like, in person we have this wicked _thing_ between us, you know? This sort of incomparable, magic-like thing. And I feel like if I see her…like actually _see_ her…"

"If it takes me telling you to go see this chick and work this mysterious satchel of bullshit out to make you stop stealing words from dad's vocabulary and never again try to explain the 'thing' between you and _Spencer_, I will do that. Tell me, is that what it takes?"

"I get it. I'm going," I said, standing up and beginning the search for my keys, "and we're going to remember why we like each other and I'm going to stop being stupid about everything and maybe she'll explain her satchel of bullshit to me and maybe I'll explain _my_ satchel of bullshit to her and then everything will be fine. Even though I still have no idea who even thinks to say the word, 'satchel.'"

"I fucking hope so."

"What is that? Like, is that a skeptical 'I fucking hope so' or a sincere one?"

"Please go now."

"I'm going, I'm going!"

"And could you do me a favor?"

"Maybe," I say, swinging the front door open before patiently waiting for her request.

"Will you also take care of whatever the fuck's going on that has you stealing from my stash of batteries at two in the morning? Like, I _hear_ you, you know? You're aware of this, right?"

"Shut up and wish me luck."

"Good luck, genius."

* * *

I had waited for fifteen minutes for someone to go through the door of Spencer's apartment. I didn't trust that she'd let me up if I called first and really, this needed to be one of those things where she opened the door, saw my face, and instantly remembered that living another minute without my immense charm and unpredictability was generally unacceptable and no longer an option.

Finally, a woman with two very full bags of groceries walked up the steps and wrestled with her keys.

"Hey, can I help you?" I asked with a wide smile, signaling towards the bags, "I was just about to go up myself."

"Oh my God, could you? That would be fantastic."

So as she opened the door, I tried to breathe. Steady myself for what was upstairs. It could potentially go very badly. I hadn't forgotten that possibility. But of course, all I could do was hope for the best. Maybe for the first time in years.

"Thanks so much," the woman said, grabbing her bags, "see you around."

"I hope so."

I took the stairs to Spencer's floor, failing to figure out anything of actual substance to say until the moment I knocked hesitantly on her door.

"I suck."

Sure, she looked absolutely taken aback, but I think my ultimate point was made.

"What?"

"I'm not saying that I didn't mean some of what I said to you, okay? Because some of it I meant, and some of it I said for dramatic purposes or whatever. But like, the way I said it wasn't cool and even if it _was_ cool, it wasn't constructive, right? And the thing is, I think we need to talk. I mean, yeah, we've talked a lot but I'm not sure that we've actually said the stuff we need to say in order to move past all of these ridiculous, supposedly handicapping differences that we have. So it was pointless—the way I said it, I mean. But um…basically, I'm here to say that I'm sorry and I'm not leaving until we get past this."

"You're not leaving?"

"I'm not leaving."

"You need a more taxing job, I think."

"Hey, my job is hard."

"Yet you can stay outside of my apartment indefinitely?"

"I'm self-employed."

"Oh, I get it. I get it," she said, nodding her head with a smirk that was just so _her_, I wanted to hug her for at least half an hour, "it's weird because I didn't even know that 'self-employed' meant 'time to stalk.' See, I think if more people knew that…"

"May I come in?"

"For a few minutes, maybe. Then I have a date with a model."

"A model, huh?" I asked, sliding past her and into the apartment.

"Yeah, she's super hot, super easy…you know, everything I've ever wanted. Not much of a conversationalist, but she takes direction well."

"You're an asshole," I said, pulling her in by her oversized t-shirt and kissing her softly, "and this probably shouldn't be a priority, but for the love of God, can we please have sex now? Like, really."

"Do we have time to do that before my date shows up?"

"I'll see what I can do."


	11. Chapter 11

_Guys, the feedback has been crazy inspiring. I love it. It's always good to know that people are enjoying their part of an experience as much as I am. Brilliant, thoughtful, insightful comments. I'm honored._

* * *

There were fingertips running slowly under the thin material of my t-shirt.

There was a light press of hips that was abandoned as soon as it began.

But more significantly, there was a sort of creeping, aching current of heat and want that propelled itself through every centimeter of my body before returning to its source and beginning its travels again like torturous clockwork.

I expected more frenetic movement, everything discarded and dealt with in a matter of mere moments as I tried to keep the rhythm in my head and accommodate with my physical self. I'm not sure if it was simply because that's all I had known up until that point—chemical fueled, hard as I could handle, bruising methods of need in an apartment I'd never see again or in the barely hidden corners of a dark club—or because I expected more desperation after a strange version of foreplay that had seemed to last since New York and had stayed equally influential in her two-week absence.

That's not what I got.

Instead, everything about her was quiet and unhurried. Even her blinking slowed, as if the less than half-seconds of darkness were too much of a distraction. And there we were in the middle of the afternoon, hot, insistent sun shining through her window and onto her bed as she hovered above me and warmed me even further.

"I feel like a cat," I said, suddenly, without even really meaning to. I was just so relaxed, felt so…_safe_ that it was as if everything was meant to come out. Pour right out of me. And I stretched up, satisfied and utterly needy at the same, as if that were even possible.

She laughed a bit, shaking her head, "_Why_ do you feel like a cat, Ashley?"

"I don't know. I think I feel like curling up in the sun or something."

"Right now, huh?"

"Not right now, no. I'm a bit busy at the moment. Maybe…after?"

"If it's something you really feel like you need to do, just let me know. Because clearly it's what's on your mind, so…"

"No, it's not. I don't even know where that—"

But talking wasn't an option for long. Her mouth was suddenly on mine. And apparently _slow_ was no longer an option either, as her mouth sought mine over and over until the breathing I had tried so hard to forget about became an issue.

It didn't matter.

As I tried desperately to give my body oxygen, she fought me every breath in as she travelled down my neck and rendered my breathless. Every attempt difficult and pointless.

"Spencer…"I hummed, moving the hands I had forgotten I had to grip her waist and squeeze twice.

"Sorry," she replied, finally shifting her weight and gently collapsing on top of me.

I could feel her bury her face in my neck, inhaling deeply against my skin before pressing her lips several times along its length. Once she seemed satisfied, I spoke.

"What did you apologize for?"

"What?" she asked, eyes bright instead of hooded (the way I had expected to find them) as though she had been revived in those few moments.

"You apologized to me for something."

"I don't know."

"Oh," I said, turning inward slightly so we were facing each other, "well, I'll save it."

"What do you mean?"

"For when you actually owe me an apology."

"I'm sure I owe you one already."

"I owe _you_ one."

"It doesn't matter, does it? Let's just…let's just owe each other forgiveness instead, okay? I already know you're sorry. You already know I'm sorry. Let's not punish each other just because we feel like there's some kind of…like, some certain standard length of time that it should take or some magical words that should be said to make it so that we can move on. I'm not answering to a standard when it comes to you. Not anymore, at least."

I nodded, using our new, more equal positioning to kiss her, weave my hands through her hair. Remember everything—_everything_—about her face and the way she smelled (like Dove soap and Orbit gum…and Capri Sun?) and the tiny sighs that I could hear through the kiss.

I couldn't remember anything about anyone else I had shared a kiss with in years.

"Take off your shirt."

"Oh, I see…" she said with a wide grin, sitting up more willingly than I had expected.

She reached over her shoulders and behind her, cinching her shirt slowly up and over her head like the male lead in a movie. It was almost comical considering the fact that it was a move being made by a gorgeous blonde in a pink bra as opposed to an overly waxed, overly oiled, overly paid actor who was predictably the same height as Spencer off-camera.

"_Really_?" I asked, unsure if she would know what I was referring to without the actual words.

But of course she did.

"I practiced that shit for months, you have no idea."

"It's worth it, Spence. I'm swooning right now."

"I can tell."

"Pants, please."

"Oh, no way. You're losing the shirt before I'm losing anything else."

"Fair enough."

I was practiced as well, whipping my shirt off and onto the ground with one hand effortlessly, ending the "trick" with a wink.

"Not as hot as what just happened over here," she said, gesturing towards her side of the bed, "but I can see how that might impress someone a little less experienced in the art."

"_Pants_."

"You're incredibly demanding for someone who's been a stranger for the last couple weeks," she says with a slowly spreading grin.

"Well, you're incredibly accommodating for someone who hasn't heard from me in the last couple weeks, so I guess nothing's as it should be."

"You're right," she says, standing up and backing slowly away from the bed, "you're absolutely right."

My heart plummeted to my toes as I waited to see if this was some kind of retreat. But she just stood there, staring at me with thoughtful eyes.

"Pants."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"Take off your pants."

"You've discovered your power…right? That's what this is?"

"Right you are," she says, taking a small step forward to nudge my foot with her knee, "come on."

I oblige, maneuvering indelicately (awkwardly, in retrospect) around on her bed until I can horizontally shuffle out of my jeans.

"The way you just did that was super hot, by the way. I'm so turned on and amazed right now."

"Shut up!" I say, but I succumb to a deep laugh and ruin my intimidation factor completely, "I thought it was pretty graceful. And they're off, aren't they? That's what counts."

"So you're one of those 'destination' people?"

"Huh?"

"It's all about the destination…not the journey."

"Maybe. I don't know."

"I rather like the journey," she says, crawling onto the bed and surprising me completely when her hands slip quickly into my underwear.

"Fuck, what…"

But that's all I can manage. The element of surprise has worked in her favor, and I've suddenly lost the ability to comprehend anything else other than the quickly building pressure rising up and throughout a body that I once felt in control of and now…

Maybe it would've been easier somehow. Maybe my legs would not have shaken to the point of embarrassment. Maybe the tiny sighs and moans of pleasure could have been more reasonably conserved so as not to seem so virginally desperate. But if I had any option to save face, they all dissolved because she was there.

_Right_ there.

Staring. Staring with such a complete sort of intensity that I felt part of something important. Actual. There was no illusion about anything. She was moving inside me, making me _feel_ things that couldn't be taken away or dismantled. They just _were_.

I've never been stared at like that in my entire life.

And the only time her eyes left mine was when she lowered herself again and moved her lips to my ear, whispering so softly that it was hard to make out her words over my own stream of noise. As if to get my attention, she increased the rhythm of her thrusts. I suppose she was unaware of how counter-productive a move that was if she wanted me to focus on anything other than her fingers moving at a speed that seemed sub-human and the strange sensation of feeling as though my heart could literally pound its way—warm and red and full—out of my chest.

But then she slowed, barely moving at all. And I moaned in frustration.

"Not yet," she whispered against my ear, sending a chill through me that was almost comparable to her surprisingly gifted fingers.

"Spencer…"

"I don't want to just…_fuck_ you."

"What do you think you're doing then?" I asked between sighs.

She shook her head, looking confused, "No."

"No?"

She didn't answer. Simply shook her head again and sat up to slowly withdraw her fingers and discard my underwear somewhere on the floor of her apartment. She then removed the remainder of her clothing as well, and when she was done, she seemed lost. She bit her bottom lip nervously, and looked out of the window as though the people wandering around their apartments across the street held answers that couldn't exist with us.

"Come here," I said, waving her towards me.

"I don't…I'm…"

"Come here."

She settled down again, resting her head on my shoulder, "Sorry."

"Oh my God. Stop apologizing."

"Every time I'm with you, I become these two separate versions of myself. And one of them is this like, fifteen year-old boy who sees you and spends the next ten minutes thinking about all the things he wants to…probably more like two minutes, actually…whatever. And then the other wants to tuck you in and read you poetry written by lesbians from the old country. I don't know how to balance that."

"Have you ever thought that maybe you're both of those people at the same time and that's okay? You don't have to intellectualize this, Spencer. I _want _you to want me. And at the same time I want you to respect me. I want both."

"You want both?"

"I want both."

"You're bi, then. But like, only for me and my two conflicting personalities. How modern of you."

"That's a good way to let me know you're no longer intellectualizing this. Yeah, keep saying ridiculous shit like that and we're good."

"Okay."

"So, um…you want to journey back down to your destination or m—"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

"Good. Do it then."

"Wait, can I say something first?"

"If it's not in relation to us continuing to have sex at this very moment in time, no. Not so much."

"I'm glad you're here," she said, gently placing her left hand on my heart while her right moved to show me just how much, "I'm just really glad you're here."


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry for the wait you guys! Hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks for the inspiring feedback.**

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She ran her fingers slowly and with purpose over every book in my bookcase. Occasionally she would lean in and more frequently she would slide a book out of its home on the shelf and turn in over to examine the book jacket before nodding, casting a sideways glance at me, and carefully/respectfully sliding it back in place.

"Like Being Killed. Is it a question or a statement?" she asked after several minutes, stilling her hand as it finds the title in question.

"You happen to have chosen the only one I have yet to read."

"You haven't read any of these, have you?"

"Nope."

"Just for show?"

"Isn't everything?" I ask with a shrug.

She laughs, "May I borrow it? It seems interesting. And I'll return it. Swear."

"Of course."

"And um…" she says, sliding the book in her ever-present backpack, "you're kidding about the whole…"

"I've read them, okay? Don't worry."

There was a refrigerator covered in meticulously arranged magnets, documenting all of the places I had seen and some I simply hoped to see before I died in one of the more dramatic versions of my demise that I had spent a significant amount of my nights artfully creating as a means of morbid but ultimately fulfilling entertainment. She studied these as well, smiling at a randomly placed picture of me and Kyla or a group shot of old friends and saying city names in a soft voice as she came across each magnet.

"_Vienna_," she reads, turning to give me a quick nod before moving her index finger over the crudely painted skyline of the cheap magnet and moving onto the next eye-catcher, "I've always wanted to go there."

Every piece of furniture in my living room had been patterned in the same fabric—a series of deep purple and light green stripes—and she laughed. She didn't have to say it. I could tell just from our short history of important personal context clues that she was thinking of her mismatched couch and recliner that she had possibly rescued from an 80's-themed circus.

"I like your couch," I assure her, resting a hand on her shoulder as she shakes her head, "no, I take that back..."

"Wise choice," she says, covering my hand with her own.

"I _love_ that couch," I respond, defiantly.

"No you don't."

"No, really. There's something about it. I might have to buy it off of you one of these days."

"Oh my God. Can you imagine? No, seriously. Can you imagine anyone actually _buying_ that couch? Even when it was first made in…1981, 1982?"

"Stop making fun of things that I love. I don't want to have our usual argument all over again because I'm defending that beloved couch until the death. I _love_ the couch, Spencer. I'm _in_ love with it. So, say what you will, but it makes me feel like I'm at someone's actual _home_, and that's clearly not what I've got going on here. That's _why _I appreciate it. Give the couch its props, please."

"Fine, props be given to that unholy creature disguising itself as a convenient mechanism for sitting and general relaxation which sits in the one room of my increasingly more inadequate apartment. It deserves it."

"I don't feel like that was sincere."

"Weird," she says, smiling and pulling me behind her as she leads the way down my hallway, "finish the tour, please."

She raised her eyebrows, scratching her head in confusion as she surveyed my bathroom wide-eyed and smirking.

"What, Spencer?" I sigh, smiling as she begins to laugh.

"Everything is white. Like, I've never seen this much white before in my entire life…and I've been to a Third Eye Blind concert."

"_Oprah_ magazine says that the best color for your bathroom is white. It's simple and if maintained it looks and feels clean and bright. It's the only way to start your day."

"I have a shower curtain that details the history of cats. Have you been judging it this entire time?"

"Um…I think maybe I would've, but I've learned so much from it that it's kind of hard to criticize. I get all of the feline-based questions right on _Jeopardy_ now. It's amazing."

"See? _See_? What have you learned from your bathroom?"

"Not a lot."

"Exactly. Not a lot. I mean, sure, everything about it is perfect and vibrant and whatnot, but Alex Trebek is never—_ever_—going to announce a category dealing with shit that's perfect and vibrant, am I right?"

"You're right. No, you're totally right about that."

"Yeah, I know I am. Oh well…not too late to redecorate."

"That's true."

Finally, we stood in front of my bedroom—the room in which all tours should conclude with if you're relatively smooth. But Spencer was different and I knew that for her, seeing my room was about getting some sort of answer or explanation as to who I was when by myself. Not about finding out how my sheets look on the floor.

"I like it," she says, sounding surprised.

"Really?"

"It's a fucking mess."

"Uh-huh."

"I mean, it's one of the messiest rooms I've ever seen. It's as if you live with a gaggle of toddlers…but _only_ in this one room."

"Right."

"Wow," she says, walking towards my bed in hesitant steps, careful to avoid the random clothes and discarded objects.

"Yeah…"

"The rest of the rooms are…"

"I know."

"And then this is like…"

"I get it."

"Why?" she asks, taking a seat on my unmade bed.

"I don't know. It probably has something to do with the way I grew up. The house had to look perfect at all times in case my mother was entertaining or there was a party or something, so the only place where I could actually walk around without worrying that I had inched something out of place was _my_ room. And of course she was never in my room because we didn't…you know, we didn't have that kind of relationship where she even needed to be in there. But anyway, I think that started it and it just got worse and worse over time because no one ever comes back to my place. I mean, even when it's us hanging out, I go over to your apartment, right? And with my last girlfriend it just…"

"_Last_ girlfriend?"

"Yeah, you know. The one from the club and I think I told you about her on our fir—"

"No, no, no. I mean, you say 'last girlfriend' like you have a _present_ girlfriend that I don't know about."

"You're extraordinarily immature, Spencer. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Uh-uh," she says, shaking her head and grinning like a five year-old.

"Well, you are. I was just saying that my ex had this ridiculous house so of course we always went to her place because there was a pool and a hot tub and all that."

"Was it nicer than my place? Because I don't know if you're aware of this, but the tub in my bathroom gets pretty hot. And you could try to swim in it. It might be difficult, granted, but so far it's looking like she and I are equal in that department."

"Like I've said, I love your apartment. And to be honest, I hate hot tubs. Or you know what? Maybe I don't hate hot tubs. Maybe I hated hot tubbing with _her_ because it meant we actually had to have a conversation or whatever."

"From what I've heard about her, she sounds like a really bright young lady. Not the case?" she asks, voice dripping with even more sarcasm that usual.

"No…no, not so much."

"Shocking."

"This is usually the time when I would mock you mercilessly about one of your exes, but of course, you haven't told me about any of them so as far as I know our date in New York was the first of your life."

"Of course, and look how well that went."

"Why won't you tell me about anyone you've dated? It can't be that bad."

"Because there's nothing much to say, really."

"Okay, well how about this…how about you tell me what they looked like at least."

"Like…girlfriends?"

"Yeah, how do your girlfriends usually look?"

"Uh…"

"I would guess, but it would sound like a judgment and we wouldn't want that."

"Right, of course not."

I waited in silence as she made a series of strange, thoughtful faces. It couldn't be that difficult.

"Come on," I say, sitting beside her on the bed, "tall, short? Give me something."

"The thing is, I guess I've never had a girlfriend. Like, I've gone on dates and I've slept with people but I haven't really been anyone's girlfriend. Well, I take that back. I haven't been a _girl's_ girlfriend."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I had a boyfriend the last couple of years in high school that I broke up with when I left for college. Then there was another one in college, but that only lasted a year. Other than that…"

"Wow."

"Yeah, so that's it."

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, my doorbell rings.

"I'll be right back."

"Should I come?"

"If you want."

"I'm afraid that if you leave me alone in this room, I'll get lost in clothes and shoes and never find my way out."

"Thanks a lot."

The bell sounds again, and I sigh, walking quickly down the hallway.

"I'm coming," I scream.

But as I open the front door, I realize that only one person rings my doorbell. Kyla has a key. Everyone else texts me from the front of the building. Only one person rings my doorbell twice—sometimes more—and stares back at me with a presumptuous smile. And there (standing with an oversized suitcase) she was.


	13. Chapter 13

_As always, guys, thanks so much for the feedback. It's greatly, greatly appreciated and it's always nice to have a reminder as to why you continue writing for a show that hasn't been on the air since...jeez...when was that, you guys? Wow. It's been a long time._

_Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter!_

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My mother personified the phrase, _stop and start_. She would stop drinking at one in the morning and start drinking at eleven am. She finished nothing, relied on tantrums and guilt trips and excuses as if they were cylindrical and prescribed by her doctor. Of course, she had the tangible version as well.

When I was a child she would fall asleep while I excitedly told her stories from my day, my arms extended and my voice loud and animated as if _everything_ was important. Nothing meant nothing and all was relevant and everyone supposedly cared. Because I was a _child_, and rain on a parade meant fun.

Not ruin.

I'm not sure if it was that she was so utterly bored by me that she honestly couldn't help herself or if her fifth vodka tonic of the day had finally settled in—warm and familiar—and sleep was (enjoyably) her only option. What I _do_ know is that while I was definitely her personal mistake, I was no accident. No, I was very, _very_ intentional. I brought my father home _some_ nights, required—at her request—a consistent supply of money, and gave her a walking, talking bit of proof that she had fucked Raife Davies and won a prize.

Maybe "prize" isn't the right word, considering. But certainly she had won something. A wedding, perhaps, when I was five. I'm only in one picture, of course. Standing beside my mother looking equal parts excited and yet, strangely horrified. It was as if there was some sort of juvenile, yet insightful foreboding that had crawled into my ears after the cake was cut and reality was on its way, and informed me in words that I could comprehend that the shit was fucked. We were all fucked. Raife, Christine, and myself all spiraling towards a life filled with anti-depressants and bad decisions. That's a lot to take in at age five.

By the time I was sixteen, she had iced the cake of our dysfunction by sleeping with my high school boyfriend. Not once. Not twice. But for _months_. I finally found out when I caught them in our driveway. The windows of his Ford Explorer were fogged, but I could make out my mother's manufactured face through any barrier and from any angle. Even when it was angled towards my then boyfriend's penis.

Looking at her as she stood in my doorway, clutching a single suitcase and wearing an expression that I had never before seen on her, I felt every moment of a life spent under her roof. I remembered every single one. And the expression, in retrospect, was one reserved for the humbled. My mother had never spent a humble second in all of the years I had suffered through her, and nothing about seeing her that way gave me pleasure. In fact, it was unnerving.

"Ashley, how are you? May I come in?" she asks, waiting all of two seconds before assuming the answer and rolling herself and her suitcase into my living room.

"Christine," I said, unable to hide the disappointment in my tone as I closed the door and attempted to stifle the urge to throttle her on principle, "to what do I owe this extremely unexpected visit?"

She smiled as best she could and waved her free hand at me, dismissively, "Oh, let's not talk about that right now. Let's just have ourselves a bit of catching up."

"No, seriously. That's something we could've handled over the phone. What's going on?"

"Not in front of your _friend_, Ashley. It can wait."

Friend?

It took me a second to remember that Spencer was in my apartment. She was looking at my mother with a smile so awkward that I almost laughed, despite the horror standing in front of me.

"Hey," she said with a shrug, slowly extending her hand, "I'm Spencer."

"Well, hello, Spencer. I'm Christine…Ashley's _mother_. Can you believe it?"

I wasn't sure if she was subtly patting herself on the back for remembering to get two facelifts and maintaining nightmarishly tight skin through a series of Botox injections or if even _she_ knew that the idea of her having a child was laughable at best.

"So far, no. No, I can't," Spencer replied, looking to me for help.

"By the way, Christine, Spencer's not just a friend. She's…she's…"

"Like, a super serious friend. An _adult_ friend," Spencer interjected, nodding like a kindergarten teacher, "a friend like only adults have, you know?"

And this time I did laugh. Because Spencer was _exactly_ who I needed in that room, shifting her Vans-clad feet nervously and saying all the most socially awkward things possible as my mother tried to hide a pretty blatant look of confusion.

"She's my girlfriend," I said with a sigh before turning to Spencer, "_okay_?"

She nodded her head as my mother shook hers, barely covering her face with her hands (her surgeon had warned her for years about pulling her skin) in an effort to show us what frustration looks like.

"Oh my God. Have you not grown out of that yet?"

"Look at me, okay? Look at my face while I ask this for the very last time. _Why are you here_?" I ask, suddenly at that line between curiosity and utter impatience.

"Fine, if you really want to go into family business with a stranger…"

"_We're_ not a family. _She's_ not a stranger. Now, continue."

She sighs dramatically, looking around for a chair. Once it's found, she looks at me with a sad face. Or at least, I think it was "sadness" she was attempting to portray. It's difficult to distinguish the various emotions on a face created by medicine.

"Ashley, this is difficult for me to say, so please be kind and remember that no matter what, I'm still your mother."

"That's not inspiring. Try again," I say, refusing to leave my position by the door.

"Fine. Your father…the money that your father left me in his will has seemed to run out and…"

"You spent it. It didn't just grow legs and run out. You _spent_ it."

"Whatever. It's gone. And I've had to put the house up for sale and the furniture…well, the point is, I need to stay with you for awhile. You know, until I collect some money that I have in a few different accounts. It won't be long and maybe this will give us a chance to…"

"Bond?"

"Yes, Ashley. Bond."

"It's weird, don't you think, how you want to bond now that you need me? Because, when I needed you, you were nowhere. Wow, yeah. That's just really strange to me right now. Is that not…is that not strange to you, _Christine_?"

"Things weren't easy for me when you were growing up, Ashley. Your father was a selfish man who didn't care about us and you were just…tugging on me, _needing_ all of this from me. I wasn't in a good place then. I admit that. But I'm here and I'm asking for you to understand my situation."

"I don't, though. No, wait. Hold on. That's not what I mean. I _do_ understand. I just don't care. I don't fucking care. You say all that to me like it means something. There's no apology in there anywhere. You talk shit about my dead father and then ask me to understand. That's really rich. I fucking love it."

"Should I go?" Spencer asks, gesturing towards the door and making such intense eye contact with me that whatever it is she can't say in front of my mother is communicated perfectly. And I'm reminded what it means for someone to care. What it looks like. How it feels.

"No," I say, walking to the couch where I had thrown my purse, "you should stay."

"It's only for a few days, Ashley. It's just until I cash out…"

"Not you. I was talking to Spencer. And you…I'm writing you a check from the inheritance. I have no problem with the idea of you panhandling tonight but he would have—for whatever reason. So, he can pay for you to stay at a hotel until you do whatever it is that you…whatever."

"Ash, can I talk to you for a second?" Spencer asks, quietly, "just for a second."

"Right now?"

"Yeah, preferably."

"Um…"

"Yeah, yeah," she says nodding, "come on."

"Don't get comfortable," I say, eyeing my mother before following Spencer down the hallway and into my room.

She waits until I close the door before speaking and when she does, I know for sure that I must be imagining it, "Why can't she stay?"

"What?"

"It's none of my business. It's like, _negative_ my business and so understand that I'm saying this only because I like you quite a bit and maybe want a few good things for you, okay? It's just that…maybe this is some sort of weird sign from the cosmos that you guys are supposed to work your shit out. And granted, I don't even know what that shit is. But judging from the fact that you've never mentioned it—not even in one of our marathon conversations—I imagine it's pretty deep stuff."

"You have no idea."

"My point exactly. Like I said, I get that. However, one thing I know for sure is that important chances are missed all the time. This could be one of those important chances. Were there no unsaid words left between you and your father before he died?"

"Spencer, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but when you have someone close to you die like that…"

"I know. I know what it's like."

"I'm talking about someone you're close to. Immediate family or whatever."

"Me too."

I'm confused. I immediately run through my memory bank for a mention of something like this. Some clue of what she's talking about. But I come up empty.

"Who died, Spence? What happened?"

"My brother."

"No, you said he's in the military, right? He's the reason that you…"

"He died. He was killed there. I guess I'm not always…_comfortable_ telling people that because as I'm sure you can tell by now, I'm not exactly the kind of person who does well with people's sympathy. But this isn't about me right now."

"I'm sorry," I say, reaching out to hug her. But she just shakes her head in response and takes a step back.

I can't blame her.

"I'm fine. I just want you to think seriously about this. Because I mean, if you're waiting for her to be at your mercy, this is it."

"I don't want a relationship with her, Spence. I just don't. She's a terrible, _terrible_ person. Why would I want to try with someone if I already know that they're not going to be worth the effort? And I refuse to let her disappoint me again. I _refuse_."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Hey, I hear you. I just wanted you to take a moment and now you've done that and so I feel better. And we both know that this is all about me feeling better," she says with a smile, but it's not the sincere one that I'm used to. It's forced and a bit sad.

"I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me about your brother. I like that you're starting to trust me a little bit."

"A little bit."

"We'll get there. Before you know it, I'm going to be begging you to stop telling me your life story. Like, _begging_."

"Um…"

"Oh yeah, secrets galore. Secrets all over the place. It's going to be insane."

"Can't picture it," she says, but the smile is moving in a more positive direction.

Before I can see it through, there's a loud knock at my bedroom door and I watch her expression fall. My mother has a history of ruining the good moments. But at least her face wasn't launching towards Spencer's nether-regions so apparently an improvement had been made.

"Jesus. Enough with the loud fucking knocking," I say, loudly, moving to open the door.

"I just wanted to say that as soon as you write the check, I'm leaving, alright? I won't bother you anymore," my mother says, looking at the floor, "and I'll let you know when I have a reservation somewhere…give you the number if you'd like to call."

"I would just call your cell if I needed you."

"No service. I had to…"

I silence her with my hand, because I see the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of her eyes, and while I might be harsh, I'm not impenetrable, "I'll go write it right now. And um…yeah, you can call me so I'll have the number. You know, in case of an emergency, I guess."

"Sure," she says, visibly surprised.

"Okay," I say, looking her over one more time before slipping past her to find my checkbook.

Spencer treated me like an ailing eight year-old the rest of the night, constantly asking the status of my well-being as if I had just survived a natural disaster. But disaster had merely been my mother—who I was used to, completely—and there was nothing natural about her.

Yet, I allowed a bit of it. Didn't shrug off the blanket she threw over my shoulders. Didn't stop her as she ordered up several cartons too many of my favorite delivery Chinese food before sitting next to me on the couch and clutching my thigh for several minutes as if she could somehow keep me together by touch alone. I simply nodded when she sifted through my Netflix envelopes and watched her tell-tale faces as she read the descriptions.

"There was a 'Legally Blonde II?' Were there some serious loose ends from the first masterpiece that had the public holding their collective breath? I mean…"

"I'm seriously fine," I said, nodding for emphasis, "really."

She pauses a moment, little white envelope in hand before responding, "I know."

"You're not treating me like you know. And watching you actually show emotion in your face and treat me like you like me is terrifying."

"You want me to be mean to you?"

"That would be awesome."

"Oh, wow. See, I've now figured out that you enjoy abuse. And to be honest, that's not something I'm into, so I guess you and I should see other people."

"Ah, yes! There we go. That's who I need right now. I need the Spencer who makes jokes about ending our relationship. She's fun."

"I thought you liked that I was finally…"

Already anticipating her response the second the previous words left my mouth, I grabbed her hands, "I'm sorry. You're right. I _loved_ the fact that you were opening up to me and letting me see you with your guard down. I love it. But right now I'm in a weird mood because of this shit with Christine and I need to laugh. I can't help it if I think you're funny. At least one person has to, right? It might as well be me."

"May as well," she says, and I can literally feel her shifting into the Spencer that had initially won me over, "so, um…what's it feel like to actually type 'Legally Blonde II' or whatever into the search box and then click 'Add to Queue' and then to actually, like, _anticipate_ its arrival in your mailbox? What's it _feel_ like?"

"Feels damn good. Like a really intelligent choice has been made."

"Wow."

"Spence?"

"Uh-huh?"

"This doesn't mean that I don't want…"

"I'm both Spencers, you know? I can do both. Right now you want to forget. I know what that's like."

"Because I don't always…"

"I know."

"Sometimes I want you to…"

"Whenever you need a blanket thrown over you in 85 degree weather simply so I can feel like I'm doing something helpful or you want enough Chinese food leftovers to last you the rest of the year, I'm here. And then when you have to be rushed to the hospital because you're suffering from a heat stroke or you've eaten yourself into oblivion, I'll be there to make you laugh. Because the first thing you'll want to do when the walls of your apartment are being knocked down by the fire department so that the paramedics have room for your massive, Chinese food-fed body mass to be carted into the back of an ambulance, is laugh. You'll totally need a good laugh."

"I'm not so sure about that, actually."

"Oh yeah, trust me. I know things."

"Fair enough."

"Alright, cool. So, let's watch this movie."

"I knew you were just talking shit because you wanted to watch it. I _knew_ it."

"Loose ends, Ashley. Loose ends."


	14. Chapter 14

_sorry for the ridiculous wait..._

* * *

I had missed this.

She slept beside me, her entire body contorted into a shape that one can only recreate in deep, shameless sleep. One arm extended north, while the other reached for me, giving up somewhere in the middle of the bed with fingers outstretched as a last effort to make contact. I could only wonder how someone could sleep so peacefully with so much heartbreaking, determined memory threatening takeover at every moment. How do you fight insanity with vulnerability? It just couldn't make sense. It didn't seem right.

But her breaths were even, shallow but present and sometimes deep and slow. Her lips had drifted apart, perhaps to let the nightmares escape and the peace enter (my artistic license had been running around recklessly, throwing up pointless, meaningless words as a means to make Ashley make sense in an impossible scenario,) and I couldn't help but allow my thumb to lightly press the bottom one before my eyes wandered elsewhere even as my thumb remained for extra moments.

Her legs were being strangled in a mess of sheets, and it only furthered the alarming _otherness_ of her features. She looked biblical and pure, like something from the Sistine chapel as she reached, weightless and innocent for something more worthy of devotion than a mother with confusing motives and an identity that didn't quite meet her level. She was waiting with open hands and closed eyes. There's no describing this kind of beauty because it's meant to be seen, only. It's meant to remind you that the world means well. It intends beauty for every aberration from its original purpose. Even as it watches you suffer, it gives. It always gives.

I had missed this. I had missed feeling the long warmth of a human body, the hopeless thought that we are all actually meant to be close like this. We're meant to touch and be a part of an important, shared, limitless space. I had missed thinking these late-night thoughts that could only make sense in the dark and would seem stupid and clumsy and embarrassingly naïve in the morning as I slid on all of my heavy armor.

I was still unsure of my place in her apartment. There were no cats to stare back at me as though I was actually speaking my thoughts aloud when I was almost certain it wasn't the case. I didn't know how to wander in this apartment. I didn't have her hallway memorized, nor the contents of her refrigerator so I couldn't take sleepy refuge in food as God had always intended for me. But I had to try, because sleep wasn't something I was comfortable with and the thought of interrupting Ashley's wasn't even allowed to reappear in my restless head.

Making it across the floor of her bedroom alone could qualify me for the Olympics if performed correctly. I sighed at the challenge as I gently elevated myself from the quality mattress and immediately felt my left foot meet something hard, plastic, and unforgiving. It was an unopened candle holder from Crate and Barrel, probably not intended to be used as a hurdle in navigational bedroom sport. Probably meant to be taken out of the plastic so as not to sever one's foot in half.

There were also heaps of t-shirts—which might explain why I hadn't seen her in very many, though it may have been more that heels and t-shirts don't exactly meet in ideal fashion harmony—and empty boxes of low-fat Wheat Thins, three issues of _Vogue_, a guitar that more than likely was her father's, approximately 17,000 discarded shopping bags, 5 inconveniently thrown throw pillows, a box of extra-long matches, more books stacked to the point of danger, a yoga mat, half-full Tic-Tac containers, approximately 17,000 discarded shoe boxes, a Barbie doll with a missing arm (?,) and an oscillating fan with the cord wrapped tightly around it. Walking through it was akin to walking through an interactive, installation art piece at an art gallery that was just waiting for a lawsuit. I smiled, both proud of my cat-like grace as I avoided potentially fatal missteps and proud of her for making such an exquisite mess and not even bothering to remedy it.

When I finally made it to the door, I opened it slowly, thankful that the hinges were well-lubricated and tiptoed down the hall. I felt silly, because the kind of sleep-state Ashley was in could endure the volume of footsteps—especially on carpet—but there was something about her that was quickly making me careful in all regards. And I had been careful, always. But this was different somehow. It felt different.

However, it all went out the window when I saw a small figure in the dark staring back at me and I let out a rather shrill scream before covering my mouth with my hand.

"You must be the girl," the figure said, walking closer.

This was where my lack of knowledge on the location of objects in Ashley's apartment would hurt me. I didn't know where any makeshift weaponry could be found, which only left my voice, "I'm Spencer."

"Yeah, right. I'm Kyla…Ashley's sister. Well, half-sister or whatever."

Oh, this was good. This was better.

"Nice to meet you, Ashley's half-sister or whatever," I said, extending my hand.

"Oh," she said, hesitantly shaking it with her own, "she didn't tell me you were so proper."

"It's a habit. I don't know when it started or why or…I don't know. Sorry."

"It's okay, we can be proper. But at least let's turn on a light or something, right?"

She looks around, clearly trying to choose the least invasive light source. Once she's decided, she flips the switch and suddenly she's more than a looming shadow person. She's a kind of adorable actual person, with a pair of pajama pants that feature tiny sheep with wings and a blue hoodie zipped all the way up. She and Ashley are every stereotype realized of the "half-sister."

"Now," she says, flashing a grin, "better, right? Is she asleep?"

"She's overwhelmingly asleep, yeah."

"But you're not."

"No, I'm not exactly the sleeping kind."

"That's cool. I'm not either. I mean, obviously. It's two in the morning and I'm walking around my sister's apartment in the dark trying to find batteries."

"Wait. Do you…um…"

"I live in the building. One floor up."

"Convenient."

"Sometimes."

"I was just considering eating cold Chinese food straight from the carton…with a fork, because there's no one to impress so there's no need to fuck around with chopsticks, if you know what I mean."

"God, right? Yeah, that sounds kind of fucking perfect right now, actually. Is there a lot of it?"

"Enough to make you start rationalizing your daily caloric intake as you shovel more into your mouth and entertain lies about starting a diet in order to make yourself feel slightly less guilty. There's plenty."

She nods, biting the inside of her mouth thoughtfully, "Uh-huh, I like you already. You should stick around."

We ate with her sitting on the counter, legs swinging back and forth in a food-induced satisfaction and shared stories about the sleeping brunette on our lips as we laughed about the time and the ridiculous and unrealistic diets we were going to come up with and the purpose of "Legally Blonde II." Ashley found us several minutes later with cartons scattered around us and she smiled and sighed before resting a kiss in my hair and stealing my fork.

* * *

I had been anticipating Chelsea's visit in the rare moments when my mind wasn't utterly Ashley-focused. She would slip in between thoughts and I would make a mental note to ask for flight information the next time we exchanged rushed, but always friendly texts as we each sat in endless classes or in front of open document files that had failed to produce more of the alphabet in the hours spent in front of laptops.

She was in Arizona, pursuing some complicated graduate degree in some complicated period of art history and she remained the one friend I had managed to keep from high school despite my constant attempts to leave the entire experience in a neatly-wrapped box of "no." Maybe we had remained friends because we had always been the types to "check-in" and move on, not let long phone calls drip on for hours as we realized exactly how far away our teenage years actually were in the heavy silences. She had seen me through the worst of that time with a necessary offer to listen but enough distance not to force me into a revolt. Sometimes it's nice not to have to tell your story. Sometimes it's nice for someone to already know it. So, Chelsea was welcome to kick me out of my bed and onto the couch whenever she had the time. Just so she could spare me the tangled web of explanations.

But still, her arrival date had run up behind me and tripped me into L.A. traffic in my car that I tried to drive as infrequently as possible as I made my way to the airport with bells and track pants on. I had managed that morning to churn out a decent amount of editing, the deadline of her plane landing fueling my pace. I knew she would want my unwavering attention because there was always so much gossip and laughing that needed to take place by the time we finally saw one another, that it would be absolutely required. And with school shit temporarily out of the way, I was ready to provide that attention.

She spotted me first. I could tell when I finally spotted _her_ and she was already smiling and shaking her head knowingly that she had.

"Please tell me the pants aren't the same ones from high school, at least," she says with a smirk, dropping her bag to pull me in for a tight hug.

"Uh-uh, on sale at Target last month for $9.99."

She looked me over quickly, more than likely concluding that I hadn't changed much—at least, physically—and then grabbed her bag and began walking to the exit door.

"I can get that, you know," gesturing toward the seemingly heavy woven bag she had on her arm.

"Oh, please," she answered, waving me off, "you know I'm not that kind of guest."

"Oh, good. Then _you_ can take the couch."

"Nice try."

* * *

We had been drunk and chattering about school and other meaningless bullshit for hours by the time the topic of Ashley entered the conversation. I hadn't said much in our two or so phone calls over the past couple of months. Chelsea was a patient listener and her pauses never reeked of judgment, but she also knew all about the therapy I had refused for years and so she expected me to prove myself competent of working everything out myself. That way, she'd never be forced to play the role of the friend who tried to politely suggest my seeking alternative help. She just silently demanded that I realize where my neuroses were planted and consider the significance of their roots in my behavior now. She had told me all of this, of course. I think we were in college and we sat in my dorm room on one of her sporadic visits, subtly discussing my past as a group of blonde girls in tie-dye played African drums in the hallway. I had always remembered it word for word.

"What's she like?" she asked, looking back and forth between me and the label she was slowly peeling off of her empty beer bottle.

"Um…"

"No, no. Let me guess. Glasses, of course. She more than likely prefers typewriters to computers and watches a lot of public television. Maybe she works for a publishing company. Serious, dark-haired, big on journaling?"

"Very funny. But no, she's actually…yeah, she's not like that at all. Dark-haired, though. She has dark hair."

"Fine, you tell me then. What's she like? Surprise me."

"She plans parties…like for a living. And does some consultant stuff for local magazines. Fashion stuff. She's not serious at all, unless she's around people who don't know her very well. She watches a lot of reality television. Says she does it because it usually _is_ the reality of living here, so it's entertaining because it's true. She's…"

"Wait, _what_?"

"And she's smart. But in this way that's kind of new. Kind of different so it's like, really interesting to listen to her talk about shit because she sees things I don't see. What else? She's funny and she's sweet and…and um, she called me her girlfriend just last week so I guess she's my girlfriend. I mean, she definitely is."

"Wow."

"Yeah, I know. It's kind of a lot to fit into one of our five-minute phone calls so here it is."

"I get to meet her, obviously."

Strangely, I hadn't even considered the two meeting. I still hadn't gone much further into my past with Ashley, though she had tried asking. I had never been forced to talk about my brother because either people already knew or they didn't care. Kate had found out when a rather tense visit from my parents ended in a screaming match between my mother and I in a T.G.I. Friday's after graduation. She never mentioned it to me, but I could tell afterwards that the knowledge of it had explained a part of me she had been hesitant to question. Chelsea was my past—a bit of my present, as well—and I knew that in introducing them, I would have to realize that the time to let Ashley in completely was quickly approaching. It was only fair.

"Right, of course."

"How'd you meet her?"

"I think I might've mentioned the last time we talked that Kate had set me up in New York."

"Oh! This is _her_? I had no idea that went so well. Maybe I need Kate to set me up, too."

"Apparently, she thought we would hate each other. Fortunately, she was incorrect."

"Makes sense, right? I mean, she doesn't exactly fit your mold."

"It's nice," I say, nodding and recalling the way she had looked last Wednesday as she ate a bowl of Cheerios and flipped through the local events paper. She had felt my eyes and looked up with a smile that I had recently begun to associate with the word, "safe."

"This is really good. I'm a bit relieved, actually."

"Relieved?"

"You can only call yourself a lesbian without a girlfriend for so long before you're getting into asexual terrain," she said with a short laugh, "we were all starting to wonder."

"Who's 'we?'"

"There's no we, actually. Only me. But still…"

I had my mouth open, ready to respond when there was a loud vibration on the table. I leaned forward and saw Ashley's name on the screen of my phone and looked at Chelsea for permission.

"Are you kidding me? Pick it up."

"Well, I didn't know," I said, sliding the phone open and trying to hide a smile, "hello?"

"I'm outside. But only if you're not busy working. If you're busy working then I'm at home working too and definitely not outside your apartment with those vegan doughnuts you like."

"Temptress," I replied, narrowing my eyes in a face she couldn't even see, "I'll buzz you up."

"Why, thank you."

I threw my phone on the couch and walked over to the wall near the doorway to buzz her up and unlock the door, not exactly prepared for this meeting to happen so quickly but a bit thankful that I didn't have to be the one to make it happen.

"She's here?"

"Yeah, she is. But it doesn't have to be for long."

"Whatever, she and I have lots to talk about. She can stay all night if she's willing."

"Oh, fantastic. A grade school slumber party."

She laughed, standing up to get a better view of the door.


	15. Chapter 15

Hi, everyone! Just dropping in to let you know that I'm still around and working on this story. I've decided that my next chapter will be the last. It will be triple the normal length and thus, I'm still in the middle of it. I just feel like it's close to running its full course. However, I do have another story idea that I really want to go for, and if people are still interested in reading, then that story will begin almost immediately after I end this one. So all of that being said, I'll be posting sooner than later and I appreciate your patience with me.


	16. Chapter 16

_Alright, people. Here we are at the end. I'm highly appreciative of those of you who saw this one through. I always am. I hope you enjoyed it and that you find this final chapter fitting and satisfying, of course. _  
_As I mentioned before, I have a story that I should be starting pretty soon. And even though I've definitely given a few false retirements before, I really think this is going to end my Spashley fan fic career. Maybe it'll be time to find another epic couple and have my way with some other characters for awhile. Who knows? But I'm extremely excited about the new one-probably the most excited I've been about a story-and it should be pretty long. _  
_Anyway, thanks again for reading. I hope I see you over at the other story. Oh, which reminds me. I was thinking of finally posting on livejournal so that I don't have to spend time re-formatting my stories for every site I post to. But I'll leave that up to popular opinion. Let me know. And, here we go..._

"Hi," she says with a trademark smile and a clear bag of vegan cinnamon doughnuts thrusting forward into my shameless hands, "here's the bribe."

"I love bribery," I reply, stepping aside to allow her entrance and waiting for the familiar scrape of her heels on my floor. There are times when I find slight, fine scratches that lead from my door to the couch and from the couch to my bed that I know are the fault of one or more of her one-million pairs of heels. And I like it. I like that there's proof of her in my apartment. A map that tells me she knows where she is when she's here.

"Yeah, well…" she shrugs, still smiling until I see her eyes focus in on Chelsea. Then the smile begins to falter and she grabs my arm as if she's bracing herself for unexpected news. Her fingers slowly wrap and tighten until it almost hurts.

"Uh-huh. And this," I say, gesturing nervously at Chelsea as she waits with a somewhat amused smile, "is my friend, Chelsea. She's visiting for a few days. I um…yeah, this is Chelsea."

Chelsea stands quickly and strides confidently over to where Ashley is gripping my arm—though her fingers are beginning to loosen and I can feel my blood circulating there again—before briefly resting her hand on Ashley's shoulder, "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah…um, nice to meet you too. I just…I had no idea that Spencer had company. She didn't even—"

"She never does. She never, ever does."

I sigh, "Not true in the least."

"Girl, please. I know you, okay? And you probably didn't even remember I was flying out until this morning."

"Wow, also untrue."

"I was exaggerating, obviously. But you know how you are, Spence. Come on, now."

It's Ashley's turn to look amused, her head moving quickly back and forth between the two of us like she can't believe that she's not the only one who can actually_ see_ me. But then she shakes her head and shrugs, "I didn't mean to interrupt anything. And I can still go if…if you guys were planning on doing the friend thing. I mean, it's your first night here."

"The 'friend thing' consists of wine and like, talking about school. If we're feeling particularly rebellious, we might open up a bag of tortilla chips. Trust me, you're fine."

"She tells you no lies," Chelsea agrees, plopping back down onto the couch and wrapping herself up in my favorite crocheted blanket, "and it's not my place, but I encourage you to join us."

Ashley opens her mouth to speak, but then remembers and looks at me for confirmation.

"Of course," I say, pointing towards multiple pieces of reject furniture, "sit. You want wine?"

"Yes, please."

"You want your favorite glass?"

"What's my favorite glass?"

"My Captain Planet glass."

"_What_?" she asks, her face scrunched in temporary confusion.

"Ash, the one with the…wait, look," I say, walking over to the cabinet where I hide it and taking it out to show her.

"Oh, yeah," she says, smiling and moving her arms around excitedly, "I'm glad you remembered."

"I always remember. It's _you_ who forgets."

"Yeah, well only one of us needs to remember, so whatever."

Chelsea laughs quietly, watching our exchange with a single knowing nod, "You know the story behind that glass?"

Ashley shakes her head and I feel my shoulders tensing. I move them around in tiny windmill shapes until Chelsea speaks again. I wish she'd look at me just once so she could see my eyes and the way they want to tell her to remain quiet on this.

"Okay, well when we were younger, Spencer was like, obsessed with her brother. I mean, she wasn't weird about it or anything, but if he had something, she sort of secretly wanted it. I guess that's how it works with brothers and sisters. I wouldn't know. But anyway, Glen had this collection of glasses with characters on them…cartoons and whatever. And oh my God, Spencer wanted that collection so bad—which is ridiculous because she wasn't even into any of that stuff, right?"

Ashley's staring at me. She nods at Chelsea but really, she's staring at _me_.

"This story isn't as good as I remember it being," Chelsea says, standing up, "but anyway, one night she made me go in Glen's room while he was sleeping and take the Captain Planet glass. I guess he never noticed, or if he did, he never mentioned it. I still have the shirt that she gave me for getting that glass for her. And I'm proud to say, that yes, it still fits."

"Nice," Ashley says with a slight smile.

"Right? Anyway, I'm going to the bathroom."

Chelsea walks down the short hallway and half stumbles into the bathroom. I can hear her laughter as she closes the door harder than necessary, and I laugh too. But it's so obviously nervous and intended to distract that Ashley just sighs at me.

"I know that hearing or like, talking about him upsets you, okay? So, I just want you to know that if you ever want to tell me about it, I'm here. And if not, we don't have to talk about it. But I want you to remember that I know a little about what it feels like to lose someone too."

"I know."

"Okay. That's it. I just wanted to make sure that you knew," she says, staring at me with wide eyes.

I hear the faucet running in the bathroom, a sign that Chelsea would soon be collapsing on the couch and this moment between Ashley and I would be quickly transformed into a lighter, more easily navigated moment for three. I didn't want to leave her words floating in the air. I wanted to let her know that I had received them completely.

"I _do_. And it might take time for me to…but I'd like to assume that we have it. Time, that is."

I thought back to my two watches, the newer one sitting on my nightstand ticking away.

"Of course."

There were loud footsteps and then, "Okay, who's up for a movie?"

Ashley laughs. Shrugs.

"Anything you want, Chelsea," I say, running my hands through my hair and walking over to the kitchen to retrieve her a tall glass of water.

She nods quite seriously before replying, "I want a nap."

Thirty minutes later, Ashley and I had half-carried, half-dragged Chelsea's sleeping body to my bed. When she was tucked in fully clothed and horizontal at best, we looked at each other and laughed.

"I should go," Ashley whispers.

"I wish you could stay. Something tells me she's not going to be the best conversationalist tonight and as usual, I'm wide awake."

"Do you ever sleep? Like, seriously."

"Sleep seems to come easily when I have work I should be doing. So yeah, I sleep all the time."

"Well, maybe we…I don't know."

"What?"

"Do you maybe want to go for a walk or something? I mean, it's still pretty early, right?"

"9:30 is considered pretty early for most adults, yeah."

"That's what I thought," she says with a smirk, "but since you're the more mature one out of the two of us, I thought that…"

"I'm not even going to let you finish that because it's going to be sarcastic and mean, and you can be both of those things while we're walking. Come on," I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the door.

"Wait, let me grab my purse."

"Will you actually be making purchases on this walk?"

"What if I see something I want to buy you? Like a more pleasant disposition or some actual wine glasses?"

"God, you're so funny. I always forget how funny you are," I say with a raised eyebrow, attempting to stop the spread of a smile.

"I'm hilarious. How could you forget?"

"Too busy focusing on other things, I imagine."

"Like my hair?"

"Exactly."

We walked down my block, hand in hand. It should've been the same, but it wasn't. There was no anxiety as we gently swayed into each other. We smiled openly, no longer fearing that a smile would give us away as being too intrigued or too interested or too amused. We were all of those things, and we both knew it. Saw it reflected in each other's faces. And there was no New York. Just a street that I walked down so often that I could probably maneuver it in my deepest—rarest—sleep. But there were still strange strangers and dancing conversation and heads thrown back in honest laughter.

"So, let me ask you a question," I say, gesturing at a bench.

"Uh-oh," she replies, sitting next to me, "should I brace myself?"

"No, no, no. It's nothing…it's not like that."

"Alright, then ask."

"Okay, so you know I finally present my film in a couple days, right? And they do this big thing whenever you present. It's like…there's food and champagne and I go up on stage and introduce it and most likely make a complete idiot of myself, of course. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to be my date. I guess more like, _would_ you please be my date?"

"I'm your girlfriend."

"Uh-huh…"

"You know I've been waiting for this for like, months. Of course I'll be your date. I was going to be there with pom-poms and balloons whether you had invited me or not."

"I don't think pom-poms are going to be necessary, Ash. It's not really a pom-pom moment."

"You should've said something earlier then, because the pom-poms are bought. I've lost the receipt somewhere in my room, I'm sure and they cost at least $2.50 _plus_ tax. You don't want me to waste my money, do you? That wouldn't be cool."

"Yeah, sorry. It's just not that kind of scene, I'm afraid."

"Then you owe me $2.50…plus tax."

"I'll write you a check."

"Cash only, sweetheart," she says, and punctuates her absurdity with a wink that I laugh at despite myself.

"I'll see what I have under the couch cushions and get back to you."

"The fact that you just asked me such a ridiculous question sort of makes me want to sleep with you. Is that weird?"

"Why is that question ridiculous?"

"Spencer, I have plans to be at or a part of every major event in your life for as long as you and I can stand to be in the same room. Maybe even after that depending on how dramatic the breakup is."

"I feel warm and fuzzy inside."

She laughs, nodding enthusiastically, "_Right_?"

"Alright, so now tell me why asking a supposedly ridiculous question would make you want to sleep with me."

"Because you're pretty adorable sometimes. And that was an adorably ridiculously question."

"Well, if you remember, I have a pretty intoxicated visitor crashing in my bed right now. I mean, we could try working around her but…"

"I remember. And sorry, but I don't like threesomes."

I hesitate before I ask the question, because before, this would've meant something different than it does now. Before, it would've been laced with judgment instead of honest amusement. "You've never had a threesome? Somehow that surprises me."

She shoves me playfully, "I never said I hadn't had one. I said I don't like them. And unlike you, I determine what I like _after_ I try it."

She gets it. Throws in a dig to let me know that she realizes how different things are between us now, as well. Not within us. Just between us. Though we were probably both working on the "within."

"Then what was the shove for?"

"I've been waiting for an excuse to shove you for like, _days_."

"Oh, that's good. Constructive."

She sighs dramatically, looking at her shoes, "Could we maybe go to my place then? I have a bed, a couch, a floor…a shower…"

"But isn't that rude? I mean, isn't it rude for me to go fuck off to my girlfriend's place while my friend who's in town to hang out with me sleeps off a bottle of wine?"

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she turns her head north, toward the flickering light of a bar's gaudy neon sign for a moment and then swings it quickly back as though she has an answer. But her mouth still doesn't open to allow words to exit. She simply stares at me, her eyes intense and her lips turning upward.

"I don't know, Ash."

"Yes you do."

"I just…it _feels_ rude."

"Just an hour."

"We'll say that now, and then the hour will end and we'll somehow validate even more hours when in fact, we could just wait the couple of days that Chelsea is here and have copious amounts of sex after her departure."

"What if I can't wait?" she whines.

"Are you serious?"

"Hey, I'm sorry if I can't help but find you sexually attractive, okay? God only knows why. But right now at this very moment—on this extremely romantic bench—I sort of want to be in your pants. I mean, not on this bench, but..." she says before shrugging and raising a perfectly-plucked brow, "well, actually…"

"One hour. That's it. Then I have to go home and pretend that I'm capable of being a good hostess."

"That's all I need."

And she was right—technically. As soon as her front door slipped closed with a soft click, her hands were ridding me of my t-shirt. There was no grace. No pretense. She simply pulled up and over as quickly as she could, already thumbing one nipple with her right hand as the left discarded my shirt somewhere far across the room.

"Just an hour," she says, as if she's reminding herself not to be late for something. And she must, because she wastes—if that's what it is—not a second more before her hands are expertly working in an anxious, desperate, confusing frenzy to pull down my track pants. For a moment I think of Chelsea's comment about them in the airport and smile, but I can feel it vanish when Ashley gives up (or finally gives in) and leaves them lingering around my thighs. If I try to move, I'd fall. But moving doesn't seem to be an option anyway.

"There's not enough time," she whispers directly into my ear.

And of course there is. It's just that the three seconds it would take to maneuver me out of them as I stand pressed against the door are three seconds she wants to dedicate to something more important.

"Is there enough time for a bed?" I ask, focusing my attention to the door handle that digs into my hip every time Ashley moves into me.

"No."

"A couch?"

"No."

"Oh, I know. A _loveseat_?"

She makes her point by sliding her fingers underneath the thin cloth of my underwear and rubbing her fingers in a series of small shapes against my clit.

"Fuck," I hiss, slamming my head backwards and hitting wood—hard, "a warning would've been nice, you know."

She grins, slowing her fingers slightly, "I have you propped against a door with your pants halfway off, Spencer. Should I have sent you an e-mail? Rented a float?"

I tried to think of a clever retort, but she made it impossible. Her fingers made it impossible. They were circling agonizingly slow now. It felt like junior high, when you let the first person nice enough to you to be called your "boyfriend" (or girlfriend, for the lucky ones) round a couple bases in his basement under the pretense of watching a movie. You don't know if it's right. You just know it's happening. But Ashley wasn't a thirteen year-old boy hiding wood under a blanket. Her misses were all on purpose and somehow that made them right. I could feel just how _right_ on the insides of my thighs as she spread the evidence around as if to show me.

"Maybe we don't have time for you to fucking tease like this either, huh?" I ask, trying anything to will her hands further down and inside.

"Yeah," she replies, licking a hot trail from my collarbone all the way up my neck, "I think we do."

"Ashley…"

"Spencer."

"Come on," I say, thrusting my hips forward once.

"That's not very convincing."

Her fingers stop moving altogether. Instead, she presses her index finger against my clit with a significant amount of pressure. I know because I watch helplessly as she does it. At first the feeling is nearly perfect—like walking out of the cold shade and into the reach of the sun. I feel an endless stream of muted pleasure so overwhelmingly simple that I almost can't stand it. But then the insistent craving for more of something returns and I thrust forward again. More forcefully this time.

"I don't need you to _show_ me," she says, removing her wet finger and bringing it to her mouth, "I already know."

She closes her lips around it, and her eyes slip closed as well. The soft moan she releases is what does me in.

"Then _fuck_ me. _Now_."

"That's better."

"What's better?"

"Tell me. Tell me that you want me."

"You know I do."

Her eyes soften a bit. "But I still like hearing you say it."

"I absolutely fucking want you. I left my friend—who I haven't seen in a million years—alone. And it's totally feasible that she could wake up and think I've been abducted, so that I could get fucked against the most disagreeable door ever by my girlfriend who couldn't wait two days so that we could _make love_ against something soft and reasonable. And despite all of that, knowing that _she_ wants _me_ makes me feel like the luckiest person in the entire world—literally. Sometimes I look at you and I still can't believe it."

"You've earned yourself a bed. Lift," she says, bending down to help me take off my pants completely.

"One more hour."

"Oh my God. I told you this was going to happen."

"No, I told _you_ this was going to happen," I say, stretching my arms so that they wrap around her waist and bring her closer.

"Whatever. Someone said it."

For a few minutes I can tell that we're both slipping in and out of the first stages of sleep. That stage where you can't tell if you're dreaming or just delusional.

"What time is it?"

"It's late. You should probably go," she says, sitting up to look at her clock, "yeah, it's definitely late."

"What time, though?"

"It's like, almost one-thirty."

"_What_?"

"Spencer, are you kidding? You've been shutting me up with your mouth every time I try to tell you it's time for you to go home."

"Oh my God. I'm the worst friend ever."

"I wouldn't go that far. I mean, you're a pretty horrible friend but the _worst_?"

"That's extremely helpful."

"Alright, let's get you out of here," she says, jumping out of bed and reaching to pull me up, "come on."

"Fine."

I allow myself to be pulled out of bed, knowing it's been accomplished when my feet land on a magazine and a water bottle.

"Whoa, watch out," she says, steadying me and laughing as though her minefield of a room is perfectly normal.

"One day I'm going to trip over something in here and break my neck, you know."

"Actually, no, you won't. Because it's getting cleaned tomorrow—while I'm at work."

"You're hiring someone to come clean your room?"

"I have to. If someone else doesn't do it, it won't get done. And I need it to get done because…well, I just need it done."

"Why is that?" I ask, reaching for my clothes. They're lying on a pile of colored pencils. I'd ask why, but there's really no telling in this room.

"It's hard for me to throw stuff away. I don't know, maybe I'm a hoarder or something."

"How many hoarders do you know who only hoard shit in _one_ room, Ashley?"

"Maybe it _starts_ in one room, genius."

"Oh, I see. Okay. You're a hoarder then. But anyway, I'll text you when I get home," I say, leaning in to give her what's originally meant to be a quick kiss. Instead, it heats up before I can stop myself and soon we're making out and shuffling backwards towards the edge of her bed.

"No, no, no, no," she says, pulling away.

"Right, okay," I reply, shaking my head, "I'm the worst friend ever, by the way."

"You know what? You're right. Now go."

I plant a quick kiss on her forehead and make my way down the hallway. It takes every part of me to force myself to open the door—especially when I think back to a few hours ago when I was being pressed against it and she was...

I always hate the leaving.

"You realize that you're the worst friend ever, right?"

"Uh-huh. I'm completely aware."

"Good."

"Sorry. How long have you been awake?"

"Oh, just like forty-five minutes or something. It's perfectly fine, though, because it gave me time to…you know, think or whatever. You know how much I value my time to think."

"Of course," I say, plopping down next to her on my bed, "and what was on your mind, kid?"

"I hate when you call me that. But anyway…"

"I know you do. That's why I do it."

"I had to process the whole 'meeting Spencer's girlfriend' thing. I mean, it's not like it's something I've gotten to do before."

"True."

Chelsea smiles, grabbing my hand, "I like her."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, she seems really cool. And you can tell how much she likes you after spending an entire five seconds in the same room with you two. It's insane the way she looks at you."

"She's…"

"And not only that," she says, cutting me off, "you look at her the exact same way. I think by this time next year, I'll be a bridesmaid."

"Oh, who do you know that's engaged?" I ask, hitting her with a pillow.

"Trust me, _kid_. You two are a big deal."

"You think so?"

"You don't?"

"No, I mean…I hope we are. But I can't say that I don't have a few lingering insecurities. She and I are still very different people and sometimes I can't for the life of me figure out what it is that keeps her coming around…calling me her girlfriend. It's like any moment that look she gives me is going to turn into something else and she'll admit that this entire thing is a reality show prank or whatever."

"Wow. Insecurities, indeed. Maybe it's because you're smart and hilarious and gorgeous. Ever think about that?"

"No, because that would make me a narcissistic prick."

"Gotcha. Alright, well think of another way to remind yourself without thinking about how awesome you are all day because it's true."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Then there's also the fact that I don't know how to make myself talk to her about Glen."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because I don't talk about him to anyone. I haven't…like, _ever_. I worry that getting into all of that will just bring up shit that I haven't dealt with yet."

"It will. And that's exactly what you need. Come on, you know that."

"I guess so."

"Sorry, Spence. There's no way around it. This is a good thing," she says, reaching for her water glass, "now, let's figure out who's going to deliver me food at two in the morning."

"It's like high school all over again, huh?"

"Sure. Only you're not in the bathroom taking a pregnancy test."

"Thanks for that, Chels."

"No problem."

I was having serious Ashley Davies withdrawals by the time I dropped Chelsea off at the airport a couple days later. She made it a point to remind me not to screw things up with her, of course, as we stood outside of my car holding luggage and promising each other not to wait so long the next time. But we both knew we would. It was the way we worked, she and I. We took our nostalgia in small doses and tried to maneuver through the present as best we could.

I wanted to call Ashley immediately. Break every hands-free driving law in existence if that meant I got to hear her voice. She had refused to interrupt my time with Chelsea any further, promising that when we finally got to be alone again it would be completely worth it—all this coming from a girl who initially couldn't wait even a second longer before leading me back to her apartment and forgetting all about the mere concept of a houseguest.

However, my film presentation was in just a few hours and I still had to get ready, write the speech I had been putting off for weeks, and hyperventilate in a dark corner while cursing myself for refusing to fill my prescription for Xanax out of some sort of strange memorial to my brother.

I hated public speaking, hated watching people's facial reactions to my work, hated staring at a dark screen waiting for validation that I had chosen correctly when applying to film school. And in these moments, I can't believe I didn't go into pharmaceutical sales. But oh yes, the memorial to Glen.

This was all a lot of sacrifice for a guy who wasn't even around to appreciate it.

I haven't even taken in the aesthetics of the room before I see a gorgeous brunette blushing and clutching a champagne flute. She walks over to where I'm standing and grabs my hand. I squeeze back, hoping she doesn't feel that I'm shaking.

"How long have you been here?" I ask, noticing that the room is just starting to fill up with people.

"Thirty minutes, tops."

"So, you showed up an hour early?"

"Uh-huh. Pretty much."

"You're insane."

"Excited, Spencer. I'm _excited_."

I looked around the small auditorium, releasing one deep breath after another in an attempt to calm my nerves. Ashley stood in front of me, a slightly worried look on her face and hands free of pom-poms—thank God.

I had spent the last two hours trying to figure out what to say. How do you introduce a film that you started making a year ago as some sort of therapeutic tribute to a brother who you'll never be sure you knew at all, who died in a war that he knew nothing about before stepping on foreign soil? What can you say?

I came up with a few sentences, but none of them conveyed the point well enough to be said in a roomful of people who wanted to be both moved and ultimately, impressed. Before I left my apartment, I had managed to spill a Vitamin Water on the paper my "speech" was written on anyway. The ink had spread across the wet desk and dragged the words with it, stretching them out into a fading mess. It was an improvement.

"You look really, really nervous," Ashley says, interrupting my thoughts, "do you want any water or anything?"

"Yes, but instead of water, could I get a bottle of arsenic?"

"See, those two things aren't really the same…"

"Oh, I had no idea."

"Look, you're going to be fantastic. And even if you're not, you _look_ fantastic and that always makes me feel a lot better."

"It makes you feel better that _you_ look fantastic or that _I_ look fantastic?"

"Actually, both of those make me feel a lot better on a daily basis."

I laughed a bit, and it felt good. It made me feel a little more like myself.

"I'm glad you're here," I say, rocking our hands back and forth, "it's the only thing that's helped."

She smiles, and it lights up her entire face, "Good, because I need to ask you something."

"It _was_ the only thing that helped."

"Oh, shut up," she says, dropping my hand, "it's just that…this is so weird."

"What?"

"No, not _this_. I meant that I haven't asked anyone this question before and it feels weird."

"Okay…"

"Alright, look, you and I spend a lot of time together and if we're not together then we're wishing that we were and…and at first it made me feel a little codependent. I didn't know if it was a good thing that I _always_ wanted to be around you. But lately I've kind of figured out that it's not like I _have_ to be around you, you know? I just _want_ to be. Because if something funny happens—for example—and you're not there to see it, I just picture your face and wonder what you'd…this is a terrible example. Whatever. My point is, I like being around you. But I'd be content just knowing that if I needed to see you, all I would have to do is go home. I love when you've been in my apartment because everything smells like your laundry detergent and your coffee cup's in my sink and it's…it's the way it's supposed to be, I think."

"So, what are you saying exactly?"

"I'm saying that I had my room cleaned because I want it to be our room."

I'm taken aback, and I shake my head in order to gather the thoughts that are scurrying around and creating too much noise—which she obviously takes as a sign that I'm saying no.

"I understand," she says with a sad, tight-lipped smile, "it's a really big step."

"I love you."

"What?" she asks, looking as shocked as I feel.

The words had tumbled out of my mouth so naturally that they were in the air before I even realized what had happened. I had never been the first to say it—ever.

"I'm sure you heard me the first time, but um…yeah, I love you. And of course I'll move in with you. Even though I'm completely insulted that you didn't even entertain the notion of moving into _my_ place."

"You're serious?"

"Uh-huh."

"Wow," she says, blinking quickly before pulling me in for a bone-crushing hug.

I fight through the pain out of pure adrenaline. No matter what happens with my presentation, I have Ashley. I get to move my strange trinkets and my record collection and my stack of notebooks into her apartment—_our_ apartment and wake up to her eyes staring back at me, wide and bright. It made the validation of an audience filled with classmates I had only spoken to twice and an assortment of people from other programs that were probably receiving extra class credit for attending seem a lot less important. A lot less daunting.

"Kate's going to flip the fuck out," I say, finally sparing my skeletal system any further damage by separating myself from her surprisingly strong, pilates-toned arms.

"Oh my God, I know. We'll have to give her the news via speaker phone so she can just go ahead and tell both of us at once how she's the best matchmaker ever."

"Sounds like a plan, but um…I've got this whole film thing I've got to do so I guess I will see you afterwards. If I've passed out, just shake me or something. Kick my face, maybe."

"Got it."

"Cool," I reply with a nod, walking down the aisle towards the small stage.

"Wait, Spencer," she says after I've walked only a few feet.

"What's up?"

"I love you too."

Her face reminds me of the night in New York when she seemed nervous, yet excited and I was tripping over my words just to be standing in front of it.

"Well, of course."

"You're such an asshole."

"Well apparently, you love it."

"Apparently."

The applause did nothing to slow my racing heart as I walked over to the lectern. Then it turned into a frightening, nightmarish silence and I felt like crying. It was hard to see over the lights, and the faces became featureless circles as I stood on the stage, waiting for this to all go horribly wrong.

But soon, all of those faces turned into my brother's, and suddenly it was as if he was there. Maybe he was. And I felt a calmness that I hadn't felt in a very long time. The silence became comforting. It was exactly what I needed, in fact.

"Hello, everyone. First of all, I want to thank you guys for coming because I fully realize that TBS is showing "First Wives Club" again tonight so I know it's a bit of a sacrifice. But um…this film has been a labor of love for me. It was fueled with an energy that only a lot of Fanta can provide and also, the memory of my brother…who died in Iraq. I didn't get to know him the way I would've wanted to and I guess this is my way of at least knowing as much as I can about what took him away from me. The film's not some documentary on the war. Because I don't think there would've been any originality in that at this point. Instead, it's about young people who have made the decision to fight and the fear that goes along with preparing to go take a chance with your life. I think that's an experience that a lot of us can't really comprehend. So, that's what this film is about and I hope very much that I've achieved my goal, here. That goal is to make my brother proud. And maybe a few other people as well. I don't want to over-talk this thing because you know, it's basically a glorified Power Point with some fancy sound effects. However, my heart's there and they tell me that sometimes that's all that matters. So without further rambling…"

I left the lectern, taking a deep breath as the clapping returned and I finally made out the features of a single face. Ashley sat in the front row, her eyes watching me for moments after the lights were lowered, and I could tell that she was waiting for a sign that I was okay. I smiled at her, and watched as her shoulders lowered in relief. She quickly mouthed an "I love you," and I smiled with unedited happiness before we both turned towards the screen and held our breath, waiting.


End file.
